


HER

by degradedpsychotic



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: F/M, Forgiveness, Post-Advent Children, Reincarnation (ish), Trust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:29:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 62,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4095850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/degradedpsychotic/pseuds/degradedpsychotic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I never blamed you."<br/>(If she is an angel, he must surely be a demon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Waking Up

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle up, kiddies, AJ's back in the FF fandom with a self-indulgent otp with an unimaginative title.  
> This chapter is mostly just to set things up. It seemed to sit better on its own, but other chapters will follow soon. Don't worry- The chapters will be much longer than this one!

There is a certain peace that blankets the soul when sleep takes over. A peace that makes fingertips and toes tingle with the lack of stimulus, the brain sending out waves of white noise as eyeballs rest in their heavy sockets. Dreams would break through, clips and fragments like blips on a scanning radio. Images played on the mind’s screen, reminding the slumbering soul of things they had left behind, or things they desire.

That peace is not here.

The dreams are but flashes, showing blood, carnage, anger, greed, fire. So much _fire_. His body twitches, spasms against invisible restraints as he sees the image of children being manipulated and reduces to blank-eyed dolls, their parents ripped apart by shadow beasts. He sees the sky, the rain, and his skin feels as if it is burning from his bone.

He wakes with a gasp and a throbbing headache.

He is in a field.

For a moment, it seems to difficult to even sit up. He can see tall grasses from his peripheral vision, watching the invisible wind gently nudge them into a patch of too-blue sky. He cannot see the sun, though the heat and the way the light glints off of the grass, it should be right above him.

His head hurts.

He bites his lip to stifle a cry of pain.

He sits up once the attack of sharper pain passes, the familiar squeak of leather causing him to look down at himself. He had been laying on a long leather coat, the blackness absorbing heat and sending it up at his pale, pale skin in waves. His pants seem to be made of the same material, and heavily buckled boots are fastened up to his knees.

There are stains of dirt, blood, and ash on the otherwise perfect material.

Sitting up, he can now see over the wall of gently blowing grass, if just barely. He notices specks of yellow, and it takes him a moment to remember the name for such plants.

 _Flowers_.

Their scent, light and laced with pollen, blows steadily in the wind that pushes his hair around his head. The blue sky seems to have no horizon, but clashes with the flowers regardless. He still cannot see the sun, and that bothers him more than it might. He feels enclosed, a foolish thought in an endless field, but it is true. His chest constricts as he stands, but he nearly stumbles back to the ground as a sharp pain shoots through his shoulder, as if someone has stabbed him. He turns around for the source, eyes falling upon the ground, and something cold settles within his stomach that he cannot place.

There are black feathers on the ground, a few stuck to the skin of his shoulder in the heat, as if a dozen ravens had met their end beneath him.

“You’re awake.”

He jolts, spinning around quickly and grabbing for something at his hip that is not there any longer. An emptiness and hopelessness fills him as his gloved fist closes around air, but his defense falters when he sees the source of the voice.

A woman stands not ten yards from him, crouched in the tall grasses and flowers, delicate fingers fondling the gentle petals of the bulbous blossoms. He watches her in silence as she seems pleased with her findings, standing and wiping invisible dirt from a pink dress. A short red jacket accompanies the outfit, but it’s her face that he focuses on. Her face, soft and shaped as a cherub’s, is framed by strands of curling brown, but the kindness of the entire sight is shattered by the fury buried within her livid green eyes.

“I never blamed you.” The softness of her words does not match the storm in her eyes.

He opens his mouth, tries to speak, but a creak is all that makes it through. His head _hurts_ , his throat dry, his entire state a complete mess. He dares to take a step forward, away from the mess of feathers and the coat on the ground, pressing down grass and flowers with its position.

He opens his mouth again, and something comes out. “Who are you?”

She shrugs, head turning as her hand begins to cup flowers again, her attention no longer fixated on him like a cat eyeing a mouse. “Shouldn’t you ask who _you_ are?”

He opens his mouth to ask just that, but a flash of pain through his skull momentarily blinds him.

What he sees on his eyelids, however, is an image. An image of a woman in pink, blood staining her dress, green eyes devoid of life. His blade is coated in blood. She does not move. He laughs. Someone screams.

When his eyes open, the woman is closer, half the distance she had been. She’s so small—She appears fragile, walking through the flowers with the caution of a man walking on flames. Though he knows- or at least, he  _thinks_ he knows- that she's stronger than she looks. Like a flower that pushed its way through concrete, blooming where the sun cannot even reach it.

A flower in the slums. Beautiful.

“Do you remember?”

He shakes his head—He does. It seems to be rushing to him now, but his sight stays on the woman in front of him. His eyes briefly dart down to her abdomen. He is oddly relieved when there is no blood.

“It was Jenova, not you,” she said softly, sighing largely as if this is something she has had to say time and time again. “It wasn’t you. It wasn’t your fault. It—It was my sacrifice. Jenova controlled you to complete the act. Pure Cetra blood was spilled… After casting Hope, such an act strengthens the spell. I did it to save my friends.” She pauses, her hands clasping over her stomach, as if she still feels the pain. Her eyes are sharp and fierce, and it takes everything he has not to look away.

“I did it for you, Sephiroth.”


	2. CHOICE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heroes never truly die, do they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go, an hour after the first chapter. (I'll probably never update this fast ever again.)  
> I'm going to be taking a few liberties with Sephiroth's childhood and genetic makeup, since that's not something exclusively touched upon in canon.

She gives him time. She gives him time to slowly pace within a small circle, her eyes staring red-hot into his back. He eventually picks up the coat from the ground just for something to do with his hands, not liking how familiar and methodical it is to put it on. The heavy weight of the leather and the tempered, dented steel of his limited armor is almost _comforting_ , and it takes a conscious effort for him to block out the smell of sweat, blood, and the same ash that coats his boots.

Behind it all, it smells faintly of flowers.

(He resists the urge to sneeze.)

Still, she does not speak. Everything is rushing to the man’s head at once, and his hands freeze on the lapels of his own coat, midway between pulling his hair free and fixing the collar.

Something is off about this. About this woman, about this place.

His hair cascades down his back and he stares at the back of his left hand, knowing what he would see if he removed the leather hiding the scarred flesh.

He is a monster.

Monsters and Cetras were not supposed to be in heaven together.

“It’s not heaven,” she speaks softly, and he looks up to see that she’s now only a few feet away. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to see small grass stains on her dress and the flyaway hairs from her braid. “This is the Lifestream—Well…” She sighs, reaching up to tuck a curl behind her ear. “It’s not really that, either. I created this place. It’s… sort of a meeting place. When Cloud…” She shrugs then, the pain of the story weighing so much on her shoulders that they drop. Her hands fold over her stomach once again.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she finishes, and those brilliant eyes are boring holes into his face. He tries not to shy away. “I don’t blame you,” she repeats. “Although… A lot of people do.”

He remembers, in flashes. The feel of madness clawing at his skull. Destruction providing some sick enjoyment. Destroying the world to use it as a vessel. A vessel to find his _real_ mother—His _real_ home.

“This is your home.”

He looks up, speaking once more. “Can you read my thoughts?”

She nods, looking slightly… sheepish? The blush that covers her cheeks is brief. “It’s because this Plane is my creation. Nothing happens here without me knowing.”

The anger is a rotting thing in his stomach, bile rising in his throat as his gloves creak, fingers forming tight fists. “Why am I here? If this is some Cetran trick of the Lifestream—“

“You’re part Cetra too, Sephiroth.”

He freezes, his mind skittering to a halt and all anger going out of him like air in a punctured balloon. (Though, with slightly more grace.)

She laughs softly at the expression that must be on his face, one hand falling to her side and the other reaching out to him, just a few inches shy of touching him. “Let’s walk. It will make more sense, then.”

He does not take her hand, but he does follow as she begins to walk towards the nondescript horizon.

“It’s true that Jenova is not of this planet,” she begins, her words as carefully picked as her steps among the flourishing flora. Her hands intertwine at the small of her back, and he watches the glint of the invisible sun make her bracelets appear to glow. “She was a calamity. She fell from the sky, encased in a meteor. The scientists worked on her for hundreds of years, but Hojo… Professor Hojo did the unthinkable.”

For some reason, a flash of anger stabs through him at that name.

But she continues, ignorant of his stuttered steps. “He took Jenova’s DNA and implanted it within humans. I’m sure you remember his other experiments, but you… You were injected in the womb. When you were born, your mother nearly died, and you did too. Your DNA was missing links, missing proteins. Hojo simply filled in the blanks with Cetra DNA that he had collected. Perhaps he thought it might make you stronger.” She pauses, abruptly, and he nearly runs into her. She doesn’t turn, however, but her head tilts slightly as if she is observing something he cannot see.

“Have you ever heard the Planet speak to you, Sephiroth?”

He wants to say no. The only speaking he had heard was the tempting voice of his mother—of Jenova. Though, now that he thinks of it, he remembers sitting in his room in the lab, staring at the flooring as he heard whispers from the walls. Some were harsh, degrading him to less than human. Others praised him for being brave. And then there was crying—Pain that he could _sense_ , radiating from all around him.

“Not since I was a child,” is his answer, and he suddenly misses the burn of those green eyes. “They stopped when I was five or six, perhaps?”

There’s a moment of silence before she continues walking. He doesn’t know _where_ she’s leading him, but she seems certain that something lies against the line of green bleeding into blue.

“Jenova took your mind out from under you at a young age.” Her voice is nearly a whisper, though he senses hostility beneath it. “The concentration of Jenova cells—It was as if he had cut out her brain and put half of it inside of you. She took control easily… You never noticed. You never noticed until it was staring you in the face, and the second you showed a crack in your armor, in your _sanity_ , she dug in. You weren’t… _you_. You weren’t the SOLDIER so many had grown to adore, but a madman being controlled by a two thousand year old specimen in a tank. You found out the truth, and she knew it was the perfect time to strike. You walked into her trap without hesitation.”

His skin was crawling, as if a million tiny bugs were skittering through his blood. Perhaps he might vomit. He idly itched at his stomach, as if that might dissipate it.

“You never got a chance to live as a normal human,” she continues, the hostility turning into a sour sadness that makes him want to scream. “You were raised as a lab rat. Less than human, really. Your mother was forbade to see you, and Hojo was no father.” She shakes her head, her braid thumping limply against her back, fingers squeezing each other until they turned red. “Hojo wanted a superhuman SOLDIER that couldn’t die, and he succeeded with you… The bits of Cetra, combined with Jenova… It makes you immortal, you know.” She turns then, giving him a sad smile over her shoulder as they stop walking. He realizes, with a small wave of shock, that they’re inside of a horribly dilapidated church, a small pond of water where the altar should be. He doesn't remember walking inside, nor does he remember seeing it on the horizon. The dim lighting makes him squint.

“Immortality isn’t a gift, you know. It's a curse, in most ways.”

She steps forward, kneeling at the water’s edge and dipping the tips of her fingers into it. While she rinses her hands, he glances into a corner, where a sword is stabbed into the earth, surrounded by a smattering of small flowers. The sword is familiar, and he feels a tightening in his chest when he thinks of the man that owned it, that polished it until it couldn’t possibly shine any brighter. The man that boasted of  _honor_ , only to turn his back like a coward and run away to an early death.

He saw the rust and dirt that had collected, and did not hesitate as he stepped over to it.

“I feel sorry for you,” she continues, running damp fingers through her hair to cleanse out particles of dust, setting to work on a grass stain next. “Maybe that’s why I brought you back. If I didn’t, you’d have just been… floating there. A free soul, a free subconscious like yours…” She splashes the water just because, not looking up as he pulls the sword free of its mark. “Jenova could easily tap into it again. She already did, actually—She created three humanoid vessels, all on her own. They got a hold of Jenova’s head… Or, part of it, at least. They were able to take on your form, though it was just a figment. A tap into your mind and your image, is all… But it’s dangerous. It’s going to be dangerous as long as Jenova has her hooks in you.”

His mind had been processing every word, even as he located a ragged blanket in a corner of the room and dampened it, using it to scrub off dirt and flaking rust. Perhaps the blade is too far gone to be reclaimed. He ignores the pain that accompanies that thought.

He focuses, instead, on the urgency in her voice. He has a feeling he knows what she must want to ask him. She continues to vilify the only mother he ever knew as if reciting a speech. Her words are picked carefully, and he knows that she's already chipping away at his walls of defense. But he remains silent, for the time being, scrubbing at the sword with an almost  _desperate_ force.

“I brought you back so you can set things right. There are a few people out there that can help, including me. We need to destroy Jenova. We need to keep the Planet safe.”

He frowns, scraping off a flake of rust with a glove-tipped finger. He doesn’t look at her, though he sees her rise in his peripheral vision, still scrubbing at the grass stains on her knees.

“You brought me here to kill my own mother, didn't you?”

He feels the intensity of his gaze before he sees it, those jade eyes burning him on the spot. Her voice is thin and sharp, as if she’s scolding a child. “Jenova is not your mother. Your mother was a woman named Lucrecia Cresent.”

 _Was_.

He feels the weight of that word like a million pounds on his back.

She notices, she must, for she crosses over to where he is knelt with the sword, gently taking the damp blanket from him. The sympathy in the lines of her face is as obvious as the vivid determination deep in her eyes. “She’s gone, though her mind and soul may not be. I think she should be our first counsel. Most of the people I know that will want to help. They won't trust you. We need her word, if she's able to give it. They trust her.”

His anger flares again, grip tightening on the sword that once represented honor and valor, but was now nothing but a farce that made something in his chest constrict so harshly that he could barely breathe. “Why don’t you just _bring her back_ like you did to me?”

She frowns, then, and she hands back the blanket with more force than necessary. He grabs a fistful of it, dusting off the hilt of the massive sword. “It doesn’t work like that. You’re not entirely human, so I was able to pull you out. Lucrecia is completely human, meaning that her soul is blended with every other human soul and mind in the Lifestream. It would be impossible.”

He scoffs at the word, slamming the sword back into the dirt and letting the blanket settle between them, one corner in the pond. It isn’t worth cleaning. The damage is irreparable. “Destroying Jenova is also impossible, do you know that? Her cells are scattered—Every SOLDIER was treated with Mako, some of which had remnants of her DNA. Not to mention all of the others Hojo tested on before he set them loose, accepting failure. It would be impossible.”

“We only have to destroy her mind,” she argues, and he sees the fire within her. Bright, never quenched. She is strong, he knows this, and he feels as if he is her subordinate. A role he never fit in well. “Hojo is still out there, and as long as he and—“

“I’ll kill Hojo,” he decides, the words igniting a fire of his own. He stands straighter, crossing around her to circle the pond. “But I will not destroy Jenova.”

She turns to him with nothing but indigent shock, her hands curling into fists at her sides. He half expects her to jump across the pond and punch him in the jaw. “Jenova is the reason we’re here right now. She’s the reason I died, and she’s the driving force behind your death, too. She tried—and still _is_ trying –to destroy the Planet. She’s evil, Sephiroth, and the only reason you must hold a shred of loyalty is because she’s been in your mind since you were a child.”

He opens his mouth to put his two cents in, but she cuts him off with a violent jab of her finger in his direction.

“It took me _years_ to cleanse you! She’s still inside of you—There are cells I can’t remove, but I removed all trace of her from your mind. You can fight her off, I know you can, and we can end this for good.”

His jaw tenses, and a cliché statement leaves his lips before he can finish. “What will I gain from this? I’m a dead man, as far as I’m concerned. I never asked for you to bring me back.”

Her eyes flash in warning. “The Planet is a single step away from being a complete wasteland, and you’re too _selfish_ to help it?”

“It is not selfishness. Haven’t I done enough damage?” he shoots back, fingers clenching on his arms to withhold the urge to attack her. Perhaps it’s a good thing he put the pond between them. He remembers the way his sword sliced through her spine, remembers the blood. He feels sick. “I’m the reason the Planet is in this state, am I not? I murdered hundreds of thousands, perhaps more, and with no remorse. I’m a madman.”

Her jaw clenches, and he swears he can feel heat radiating from her. “You never asked to be born this way. You never asked to be born inhuman,” she hisses, spit flying as she loses all calm she once held in her small frame. “You’ve been tormented and abused your entire life, and the one time someone tries to help you, you push me away!”

“I did not ask for your help,” he repeats.

“You never asked to be a monster.”

The word makes his stomach heave, his breath being halted in a bubble in his chest that will not break. It’s the truth, of course. It’s the soul-aching truth. He never wanted more than to be _normal_. Of course, the fame that came with being a SOLDIER General was not one he would gladly give up, but if he could trade that to become _human_ … perhaps he would.

Her voice softens, all fury now reduced to her eyes. Her next words are a plea, and they make the bubble in his chest constrict around his heart.

“Don’t you want to be a hero again?”

There was a point in his life where he led hundreds of men into Wutai to settle a conflict. There was another point where his face was on magazine covers, recruitment posters, children’s toys. He was a hero.

What was that saying again? It’s on the forefront of his mind, a joke he once shared with a scruffy brunet and an overdramatic ginger. He was warned, once, that if they repeated it so often that it may become true. Though, it's far too late for that superstitious warning now.

Die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

His friends have died.

He became the villain, and there is no atonement to make up for what he has done.

But she continues, knowing that she’s found a weak spot. Now, she’s jabbing a knife into it to chip away at his defenses. A wall with a gaping hole in it. “You’re still that man, Sephiroth. Jenova controlled you, but she did _not_ take away your humanity. You love to fight, I know you do. If we go into this with your only motivation being to kill Hojo, then so be it. But we _need_ to destroy Jenova before she makes monsters out of anymore men.” She pauses, gauging his reaction, and begins to step around the water and towards him. “You don’t want to become a puppet, do you?”

He remembers a blond man. He remembers shouting insults. Calling him a _puppet_. A _pawn_.

Takes one to know one, right?

He is quiet with his thoughts, his freedom just now occurring to him. He is in control of his body. His mind is not firing at a million rates a second, and he doesn’t feel an unnatural bloodlust to watch the world burn. He has no desire to search out his true home, partly because he doubts he will be welcome and partly the fact that it seems like a ludicrous idea.

He can hear, just below the buzz of the silence, the crying of the Planet’s pain. He feels sympathy. He feels guilt.

Among all, he feels _anger_. Anger for the ones that made this happen. Anger at Hojo, Jenova, even Lucrecia for letting this happen. He feels anger at himself, for allowing himself to be so weak that he became nothing but a puppet with fish-string ties. The bubble within his chest bursts and he breathes, really _breathes_ , and everything smells of damp earth and recent rain and flowers. She’s watching him, expression focused, as he finds himself within the scattered bits of his soul.

He settles, and he feels new.

He says nothing until he turns, opting to sit in a pew under the guise of being comfortable. In reality, his head has started to swim in the sudden, abrupt end of the pain, and he doesn’t want to wake up in a field surrounded by dark-as-pitch feathers again.

She is still watching him, and he cocks his head at her, elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward, hands dangling limply. The back of his left almost _burns_.

“If we’re going to do this, I’m going to need a weapon, Aerith.”

She smiles, and he feels warm.

“We can find you one, I'm sure. But is that a yes?” she asks, her voice edged with disbelief and excitement. Though, he can see the hesitation. The way she will always step close, but just out of reach. As if she’s afraid of him. (Though, considering what he’s done to her, he cannot blame her for showing so much caution.)

“I suppose,” he concludes, reaching a hand up to rub at his temples, still a little stunned at the abrupt absence of his headache. Not that he was complaining. “Where are we now? Are we still in your Plane within the Lifestream?”

She blinks for a moment, searching his face for something, but then she shakes her head. “No, we’re in Midgar. Or, what’s left.”

He notes the gaping holes in the ceiling. The busted windows. The collapsed columns and pillars.

He remembers summoning the Meteor and watching it scorch the sky.

“You’re really alive,” she insists, misreading his expression for confusion rather than remorse. “It’s easy to take a soul and give it back its physical appearance. Right now, we’re both real. We’re living, breathing, and alive as much as a human.” She shrugs, and there’s a playful glint in her eyes. “Kind of a perk to the immortality thing. We can switch Planes whenever we want, and drag living souls into them with us if we want. I had to give Cloud quite a talking-to once… It takes a lot of practice and a lot of energy, though.” She finishes with a small huff, dropping on her butt in the dirt beside the pond, just before the cracked floorboards reach the pew Sephiroth had seated himself in. Her legs cross under her skirt, and he raises a brow at the way the skirt hikes up past messy brown boots.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a woman’s legs before,” she teases.

He answers flatly, directing his gaze back to her angelic face. He swears he’s seen ancient paintings of her, portrayed as a goddess. “Of course I have. I’ve bedded more than my fair share.”

Her ears turn a little pink and she scoffs. “I never thought you to be a pig.”

He shrugs, and sleep is tugging weights onto his eyelids. “You asked,” he said simply, stifling a yawn by clenching his teeth and pulling a ridiculous face.

“You should sleep,” she sighs, poking her fingers into the dirt like a child. “It’s nearing dark. No one comes in here this late, so we'll be safe." She gives him a crooked smile, and it's almost painful how she's forcing herself to be casual and relaxed around him. "I think I can handle any intruders just fine on my own."

He nods, closes his eyes, and watches bits of memories settle behind his eyelids. He hears her move, feels the pew shift as she sits beside him, and he cracks an eye open to see that she’s curled up and laid down, her muddy boots nearly touching his already-dirty coat. He sighs and finds that he hasn’t the energy to move away, propping his elbow on the end of the pew and resting his cheek in his hand, letting sleep take him under with ease.

He wakes to the sound of two enormous doors creaking open and Aerith grabbing his arm, dragging him to a back door and out into the barely-there morning light.

He tries not to look at the scenery too much as he stumbles out of sleep, following Aerith's precise movements as they dodge through rubble and the remnants of the Plate, having fallen long ago and collected a thick layer of rust. She stops when they round a corner of a building with three and a half walls, crouching with her hands on her knees as she attempts to catch her breath.

"What was that about?" he grouches, trying very hard to ignore the stitch in his side that has nothing to do with the sprint but everything to do with the strong stench of residual death and destruction.

"I forgot," she heaves, sliding down onto her butt in the dust, pushing a hand over her face as if she's ran a mile. Her dress is different, he notices- No longer pink and grass stained, but white and blue with dust yellowing the fabric. Her hair, rather than in a braid, is hanging loose, sticking to her bare shoulders and neck with sweat. "I forgot that Tifa always comes to water the flowers before opening. Luckily I beat her back."

His eyebrows furrow, body leaning as he peeks over at the looming, sagging profile of the church. "Back? Where were you?"

She smiles, though it doesn't reach her eyes. "I got us help. Someone to take us to see Lucrecia."

His jaw clenches, something twisting in his gut. "You said she was dead."

She shakes her head, curls bouncing around wildly. "No, her body is. Her mind might not be. We might be able to tap in to talk to her, especially since you'll be there. We can use you as a bit of a trigger. I'm sure she'll want to talk to you."

He nods slowly, still scanning the desolate area for a sign of life, but seeing none. "And where is this help?"

She waves him off before standing, dusting off her dress and smearing some dirt in the progress. She's very unladylike, he thinks, but that isn't always a bad thing. "We need to meet him at the old ShinRa HQ. Luckily, he's doing some work in the area with another friend that has an airship. We should be able to get a ride to Lucrecia's cave with them."

A tidal wave of questions threaten to pour out of him, but her hand is around his wrist again, and the point of contact almost burns. She winks her furiously green eyes at him.

"We'll talk later, just in case anyone's out here. You're a SOLDIER, right? I'm sure you know what  _stealth_ means."

He keeps his mouth shut and follows after the strange girl, not pulling his hand out of her grasp.


	3. MOTHER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boy is never a man, in the eyes of a mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is updating fast?? what?? don't get too used to it.  
> also, i'm gonna aim for longer chapters, but we'll see how that goes.
> 
> i have a [tumblr](http://www.apljooce.tumblr.com)

They walk in discrete silence, only broken by the crunch of rubble and gravel beneath their feet. Her hand eventually lets go of his wrist, though he cannot precisely pinpoint _when_ his arm returns to his side, feeling distinctly colder. The air itself, however, is warm. The early morning sun beat down from somewhere behind thick gray clouds, the wind nothing but a calm disturbance as humidity caused his leathers to stick unpleasantly to his skin. The woman leading him through the remnants of the city seems unbothered, but he can see sweat plastering her hair to the back of her neck. Several times, she fusses with it, bringing it over her shoulder or simply holding it atop her head for a brief relief. She clearly grows tired of this, however, and lets it fall against her back with a heavy sigh, tossing her eyes over her shoulder to the man following her.

His own hair is outside of his coat, only sticking to his jaw where his bangs come in contact with skin. He arches a single brow at her look of exasperation.

“How can you stand being in _black leather_ right now? It’s so humid.”

He shrugs, feeling the leather unstick before it settles once again. “It doesn’t bother me.” And it’s true. His body is so poor at sensing temperatures—a failsafe to ensure he is ready for battle in the harshest conditions –and the stickiness of leather is but a small problem that he can easily ignore.

She huffs at him, a tired thing, and they turn onto what was once a large freeway, leading to a hideously broken pillar of a building. The upper half seems to be in tact, though not in the best shape, but the bottom shows signs of wilting. He sees the red diamond and the sharp black letters still hanging proudly on the concrete brick. He knows they’ve arrived. He also notices that she’s fussing with her hair again, though more with nerves than necessity.

“Vincent already knows everything,” she begins, hiking her skirt as they climb over a particularly large chunk of the Plate that blocks their path. “I’m not sure if he’s filled Cid in or not… I can’t promise that he won’t try to kill you.”

He focuses on the word _try_. He smiles. He remembers how many men he's slaughters. The smile loses humor. “I think I can handle it.”

She looks over her shoulder as they approach dust-covered glass doors, most of the glass laying shattered or hanging like jagged teeth in the dirty frame. “Do you remember who they are?”

He shakes his head, stepping into the darkness after her, wrinkling his nose at the scent of rot and dust. His mind is frazzled—He remembers this place. Who could have let it decay at such a rate? How _did_ it decay? (His fault, again.) “I only remember faces. The only names I can remember are those of my friends and your name, for some reason.”

She nods, hesitating only a moment before walking further into the dark interior, her hand dragging on the wall to guide her. He follows. “Cid has a spear. Vincent’s the one that wears a red cape because he thinks it makes him look cool.” There’s humor in her voice, but it’s abruptly cut off as she halts, clutching a hand to her chest. “Gaia _sakes_! You scared me!”

“Because it _looks cool?_ ” comes a rumbling voice, laden with unamused sarcasm, and a man steps out of the pure shadow that would have led them down a hallway. His eyes are red, sharp, and he takes his time to look over the woman before him prior to settling on her company. “You weren’t lying, were you?”

She huffs, her hands on her hips as she pivots to face the man, blocking his view of the man he once tried to kill in order to save the Planet. “Vincent, why would I _lie_ about something like this?”

He shakes his head and steps forward, a clawed metal hand gently pushing Aerith aside. She eyes him warily as he stops only six inches from Sephiroth’s chest, staring up against the three inches that separates them in height.

He feels as if he’s being calculated, observed. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, but he remains still and stoic, staring back with a blank expression. If this man is to pass his judgment, Sephiroth will give him minimum reason to pull out the wicked gun on his thigh.

The silence stretches, almost painful, and Aerith makes an impatient noise as she approaches the two men in their stand-off. Her hands clasp over her stomach and she seems wary to interfere. Her green eyes simply dart between them, wide and waiting.

The man, Vincent, breaks the silence.

"You have her eyes.”

And with that, he turns, his red cape stirring dust as he heads into the dark with a curt, “follow me.”

The bystanding Cetra gives both men a long look of confusion, her hands dropping weakly to her sides. She makes as if to question, but Vincent has already disappeared, and she heads after him. Sephiroth hesitates only a moment before following into the pitch, wondering how either of them could see into the darkness without Mako enhancements.

“I can’t see a thing, Vincent! Slow down!”

Apparently, at least one of them can’t.

The distant sound of metal and the shifting of a cape pause as they catch up, Aerith’s hand once again on the wall as the other gropes blindly in front of her. He saw her grab the dark man’s cape, using it as a guide as they began to walk again. Sephiroth heard her mutter something about scientific enhancements being unfair and sexist.

They walk in silence for what seems like an hour, not quite as long as they had stomped through the rubble, until Vincent stops with a clank of metal and a final sound of his cape resting on his back. There’s a moment of shuffling about before the sound of a key clicking fills the humid air, the door swinging outward and light assaulting their vision. Aerith lets out a small shriek of pain, covering her eyes and demanding for a warning next time. Vincent says nothing as they step out onto a helicopter pad, a bulbous airship just _barely_ fitting in the small area. Sephiroth spares a brief moment to look around at the ivy and weeds that are already beginning to break through the cement, but a sudden shout distracts him.

“What the bloody fuckin’ hell is _he_ doin’ here?!”

He looks up just in time to see an older man with a cigarette in his lips grab for a toolbox that was setting on the ground, having been serving him for maintenance near one of the wheels. He launched the thing, hammers and screwdrivers and odds and ends tumbling free as Aerith jumped out of the way, Vincent simply crossing over with the man to speak to his rage-induced friend. Sephiroth merely watched the box clatter at his feet, the lid opening fully and bumping against his boot.

He stands to the side in silence as Aerith joins the two bickering men, serving as a mediator for their spat. Cid (he recognizes him now) is spitting with anger, face red, one hand violently gesturing at the spot Sephiroth stands. Vincent shows little emotion, but the pleading on the sole woman’s face makes his guilt _double_ somehow, and he wonders if it would be best that he turn and leave.

Though, what else does he have waiting for him?

A world that he destroyed? Men and women and children that had lost family members to his greed? The plan to destroy Jenova and Hojo sounds so easy, though he knows it will prove to be much more difficult. They would be needing more than a Cetra and a SOLDIER experiment to do it. They would likely need a small army, just to get past the defenses of Hojo’s guard and the SOLDIERs stationed around Jenova, wherever she is now.

Something churns within him at that thought.

He doesn’t even know where Jenova _is_.

He knows that she’s been moved out of the Nibelheim reactor. He stole her head himself—It was doubtful that they would have left the rest of her so exposed. She will likely be hidden—Aerith had mentioned that only _part_ of her head has been found. The brain was the most important part to destroy, yet it had to still be intact if she were able to create puppets on her own.

Destroy the mind. Rid her rule. It sounded so _easy_ , yet they have no idea where to start.

They need Lucrecia first. Hopefully, they would be able to tap into her subconscious and she could vouch for her son’s intentions. But what if she says nothing? What if she’s gone by now? There’s no plan past that, as far as he knows. If they want to stand any chance at all, they’ll need a plan, and a good one.

The bickering has stopped, he realizes, and Aerith is before him, snapping her fingers in front of his face to jolt him out of his thoughts.

“Come on. It’s time to go.”

He realizes then that both men have disappeared, along with the tools. Aerith is cradling the box in her arms, refilled. The airship gives a weak cough before the engines thrum to life, wind whipping them and pushing the small Cetra against his chest before she can recover. His arms had raised to catch her, but he drops them now as they fight their way through the wind to the lowered bridge to embark.

The interior is old, yet expertly made. The hatch shuts behind them with a low _hiss_ and Aerith is already heading for the front, Sephiroth behind her because he no longer has any idea what he should be doing with himself. He feels useless, as odd as it sounds. He's never been  _useless_ before. First an experiment, then a SOLDIER, then a puppet. Now what?

“We need a meeting before we go to the cave,” Aerith supplies, pushing open a stamped steel door and stepping to the front. It’s nothing more than a dome of glass, rows of computers empty from desk workers, the painting of a pin-up girl on a rocket on the floor, and a stairway that leads up to where Cid stands at the helm, a look of muted fury in his features as smoke continues to trail from his lips. Vincent is at the other end of the room, tapping away at a computer before moving to another one.

“We’re going to destroy Jenova,” she announces, as if she’s repeating it to herself to make sure she has it right. Her voice briefly echoes, and Vincent continues typing while Cid directs his glare on her.

“Easy to fuckin’ say, girlie. Didn’t we try that three years ago?”

“Things have changed,” she’s quick to argue, not noticing as Sephiroth slips away to gaze out the windows at the shrinking image of Midgar. Vincent hovers over a computer, eyes on the screen as if waiting for something.

“Yeah, and they’re worse! I’m a fuckin’ delivery boy like Strife!”

The name sends a pain of recognition through Sephiroth’s mind, and he blocks out the blood and angry, pained cries of a blond man that never made SOLDIER the best he can.

“We have Sephiroth on _our_ side now,” she continues to argue, gesturing at him with an arm, bangles clinking on her wrists. “He knows what we’re getting into better than anyone.”

The airship clears the buildings and Vincent punches something into the computer. The whole thing lurches, but begins to move forward rather than directly up. Aerith nearly loses her balance.

“That don’t change a damn thing,” he snarls, beginning to pilot the ship with practice at the wheel. “Jenova’s more powerful than we give her credit for, and Hojo too. You sayin’ just the four of us can handle this?”

Sephiroth turns to see Aerith playing with her hair again, pulling it over her shoulder and picking at split ends. “I…” Her voice softens, as if she’s afraid of her own words. “I was hoping we could Cloud and the rest of AVALANCE aboard.”

Her suggestion is met with violent, bitter laughter from the pilot, Vincent having turned to give her a look of confusion. She turns pink in the face, looking to Sephiroth for help before looking back to Cid. “We just have to convince them! If we can get Lucrecia’s approval—“

“She’s gone dormant,” Vincent supplies, and Sephiroth spins to him in question, words dying on his lips. How did this man know his _mother_?

But those are questions for another time.

“We can still try,” Aerith finishes weakly, gesturing at Sephiroth. “Sephiroth is on our side now. He’s not a puppet anymore.”

“Never was.” Cid pauses, his evil eye turning instead to Sephiroth. “Just a fucked up looney that wants to see the whole damn Planet croak.”

Something sparks within him, and it’s only that clawed metal hand digging into his shoulder and the cold feeling of a three-barrel gun pressed against the back of his head that makes him regain himself. He doesn’t realize until Aerith is staring at him with an abject horror on her face.

He has started forward, and his fists are clenched something fierce. There’s red-hot fury in his veins, and he notices that he’s no longer by the computers, but standing directly on top of the pin-up SHERA.

It feels as if he’s been staring in a dirty mirror for so long, and it has finally been cleared of all outside interference. And now everyone is insisting that the mirror is warped, and all he will ever see is a monster.

“I never asked to trust me,” he says in the tense silence, feeling the air crack around him. “I never asked to be brought back. I never _asked_ to destroy Jenova and the bastard that set this all up.” He pauses, the claw on his shoulder releasing, and he gestures to Aerith with a wave of his hand. “She’s the one with the ideas. She’s the one that brought me here. If you can’t trust me, how can you trust her?”

Aerith has gone pale.

Vincent speaks, from behind the gun that has slowly pulled away from his head. “Because Aerith never tried to destroy the world.”

“Neither did he,” she pipes up, fingers shaking where they clasp over her stomach. He’s beginning to wonder if that’s a nervous tick. “It was Jenova. He’s as guilty as Cloud.”

“Didn’t Cloud hand over the fuckin’ Black Materia to kill us all?”

Aerith spun on him, her little body screaming with anger, but arms and hands folded in nerves. “Yes, he did, and you still trust him.”

The silence returns. Vincent returns his gun to the sheath on his thigh. Aerith looks as if she might quake herself to pieces. Cid’s cigarette is nearing the filter. The only sound is the whirring of the engine and their breathing, Sephiroth staring at something over Cid's shoulder blankly. He doesn't know what to expect. He doesn't know what to do.

Perhaps he should have left when the thought struck him first.

“The second he tries to kill us, he’s dead,” Cid finally says bluntly, jerking his chin at them. “For now, take him down to the hold. Aerith, stay here. Vince, you escort our little _friend_ here.” He spits the word like venom, eyes flashing. Sephiroth is grateful that he is not the man with a gun.

Aerith nods, giving Sephiroth a sympathetic look that makes him want to punch someone. Particularly Cid or himself.

Vincent steps in front of him, beginning to walk while looking over his shoulder. “I trust I won’t need to put a gun to your head again?”

He shakes his head, silently following the man with a final look out the enormous windows, where they are now above scorched earth and the distant blue of a sea. He looks forward as they step through the airlock doors, following Vincent through a maze of hallways until they reach stairs, the quiet man's odd metal shoes clanking obnoxiously against the steel as they descend. He stops in front of a high-security airlock door, Vincent punching in a code before it slides open with a hiss. He seems uncomfortable down here, his metal fingers clicking together as he takes sure steps through a short hallway, only to be in front of an identical door. He punches the code in again and the door hisses shut behind him and the one before them slides open a moment later.

“You can stay in here. We’ll be there in a half hour or more.” He nods and Sephiroth slips past him, the doors snapping shut as soon as he’s clear, and he’s left alone for the first time.

The room is nothing spectacular. It’s a decent size, perhaps ten feet wide and twenty feet deep. Computers that are shut down and unplugged litter the walls and desks, a bare cot shoved against the opposite wall. Office chairs litter the floor, some tipped over, and he spots a few torn shreds of paper. It feels as if it hasn’t been used in years, and the fluorescent lights above flash as if they’re answering his question.

There is no code pad to get him out. It seems to serve as a prison.

Sleep is still tugging at his bones, his mind too muddled for him to function correctly. There is confusion, anger, and the blissful feeling of freedom that courses through him. His head feels lighter, almost, without the weight of his mother’s voice beckoning to him. He crosses the old room to sit on the cot, flinching at it creaks and the old metal frame threatens to break with use. He sighs, a hand passing over his face, the leather rough with dirt and dust.

He makes a short face of disgust and pulls the leather off, knowing he will be in here for quite some time. (If only he had the means to bathe.) The leather drops heavily to the floor, and he’s left staring at the alien image of his own hands. White, pale, yet one is marked.

The mark is dark and harsh, dragging from the base knuckle of his pointer finger down to the joint of his wrist to mark an oddly neat number 1 against his skin. It itches without needing scratched, and his hand flexes distractedly. He doesn’t remember the day it was marked into his skin, but only the days they spent touching it up as he grew larger. Branded from birth, it seems.

He lays down and tries to sleep, as if that will dissipate the anger he has for the man who placed the number upon him like an animal. Though, Aerith had mentioned that he was less than human, hadn’t she? A lab rat. Never human.

A small, mirthless chuckle leaves his lips before his eyes close and sleep reclaims him.

* * *

 

He wakes to the hiss of an airlock, jolting upright and taking a moment to remember where he is. He hears movement, knows that the second door will open soon, and he pulls his gloves on before they enter. When he looks up, he’s staring into bright greens, still livid with some swirling unknown storm in her mind. He wonders if that's just what her eyes always look like. He finds he wouldn't mind.

“We’re here,” she says softly, one hand resting in the door frame to keep the door open. “Cid says he’s going to stay back with the ship, but Vincent will walk us to the cave.”

He nods, standing from the too-noisy cot and crossing over to where the brunette is waiting, her hair now pulled back messily with a greasy rubber band. He wonders if it’s from the toolbox. “Why a cave?” he asks, the door hissing shut behind them as she turns and punches in the code again to open up the right door.

She shrugs, the door sliding open and allowing them to go back up the stairs. “I’m not sure. Vincent won’t explain.”

“How does he know Lucrecia?”

She turns to raise delicate eyebrows at him as they walk, the gaping hole of the loading dock opening to a green forest and a crystal clear lake. The first real flora he’s seen since the mess of a church.

“It’s not my story to tell,” she decides softly, the two of them stepping onto the cool earth. Vincent stands near the lake, eyes cast towards a small waterfall and a cave entrance behind it that looks like nothing but a gaping hole.

He turns as they approach, the softness in his eyes hardening as he notices Sephiroth trailing behind the woman like a lost duckling. “Follow me,” is the always-curt order, his cape brushing against tall grasses as they walk along the lake until they come to the mouth of the cave. Instead of leading the way, Vincent merely gestures for them to enter first.

Aerith gives him a hesitant look before she enters, Sephiroth ducking in after her and Vincent following. They walk until the darkness engulfs the day’s light, but a dull blue glow leads them further through the underground tunnel. Vincent bids them to stop at one point, instructing Aerith to push on the wall to their left. She does, with a hand of help from Sephiroth, and a boulder rolls out of their way.

The blue is brighter, almost white, as they step into a dome-like room.

A small lake sits in the middle, crystal formations reaching up towards the ceiling, disappearing into the rock to provide channeled sunlight. There’s the steady sound of dripping water, the roar of the waterfall long muted. It has an eerie feeling about it, and Vincent steps towards the water at the same moment he sees her.

A woman, encased in the mass crystal across the expanse of water. She looks as if she might be sleeping.

Vincent sits at the water’s shore, one leg outstretched and the other being used as an armrest. Aerith follows his lead, tucking her skirt under her legs as she sits with her legs out, feet just inches from the water. They both are looking at the woman, Aerith with an intense focus and Vincent with an immeasurable sadness. Sephiroth is rooted to the spot, staring at the woman in wonder. He feels a familiarity that grips him ever tighter than the bond when he looked into Jenova’s tank. It’s something he cannot explain, nor can he seem to act on it. Perhaps he might cry from the frustration of it all.

But then, impossibly, there is a voice that seems to come from the walls all around them, not even uttering an echo in the room that still has the residual crunch footsteps bouncing around.

There is movement, within the crystal. The woman’s eyes open and stare directly at Sephiroth, the green there gentle and sad. He hears her voice within his skull as soon as he looks back at her.

**My son…**

Aerith jolts, but her face lights up with bliss, turning to look at Sephiroth, Vincent’s gaze still fixated on the woman in crystal. Sephiroth does not look at either of them, refusing to drop eye contact with the seemingly sleeping woman inside of the rocks.

**I’m so sorry…**

The amount of regret, of sadness, of _pain_ , is almost too much for him to handle. He feels something block his throat and he finds it hard to breathe. He manages to utter a word, the syllables finally sounding _right_.

“Mother?”

Aerith jumps to her feet, eagerly looking between Sephiroth and the woman, Lucrecia, as if she can tap into their conversation. Sephiroth hopes she can’t.

 **My son…** The words crack with pain, and he swears that he sees a tear running down her cheek within the crystals. He steps closer, his boots toeing at the water as if he can reach her. **You’re alive.**

 _So are you_ , he thinks, attempting to throw the words at her. He hopes she hears him.

 **After all they’ve done to you…** She trails off in a mess of emotion, though the words come out once again and the lump in Sephiroth’s throat only grows as he stands knee-deep in the water, reaching out hands to her for an embrace. **After all _I’ve_ done… You’re here. And her influence is finally gone—I can sense it. You’re my little boy…** There was a dash of humor, and he swore he heard her laugh. **Though you aren’t so little now, are you?**

The water is at his hips and his hands are pressing against the jagged crystal, gripping it as if he could rip it away. “How can I free you?” he demands, a chill spreading through his body as her eyes close.

**You can’t. You mustn't.**

He scowls, tugging on the rock, though it does not move. “Mother, you—“

**I no longer belong with the living. This is my punishment for the hell I’ve created.**

“But—“

 **Sephiroth**. His name is a caress, and he knows what a mother should be like.

He sees himself, so small, no mark of a 1 on his hand, and Lucrecia, his mother, is tucking him into bed. Reading to him. Playing with him. Teaching him to walk, to talk. Hugging him and pressing a kiss to his forehead with the promises of a safe place to live. All of the things she wanted to do, but was never allowed. Some of the things she hadn't lived long enough to do.

His eyes are wet, but the small audience behind him is forgotten. “Mother…”

 **Your intentions are well,** she speaks, her voice echoing off of the walls. He hears Aerith gasp and Vincent get to his feet. **You can overcome any obstacle, my son. You must stop history from repeating itself… Stop Jenova from gaining more leverage against us. Do what you must, with the help of your new friends.**

He nods, hands slipping from the rock as he watches another tear roll down her cheek in the same path as the last.

The next words were spoke exclusively to him, inside of his mind, where he could replay them over and over again.

**I love you, Sephiroth, and I am so proud of the man you’ve become. You'll always be my little boy, and I will always be your mother.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies if this is going a bit fast- i'm just _super_ excited about this story


	4. PLANS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> every monster is human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally wrote this entire chapter in one sitting because i got a comment holy shit (hint hint leave comments)
> 
> i have a [tumblr](http://www.apljooce.tumblr.com)

“We can trust him.”

The words are spoken with such truth, such decisiveness, that he can’t even blame Cid for the look of total shock on his face. (He half expects him to swallow his stub of a cigarette.) He looks frantically between Aerith and Vincent, eyes finally coming to settle on Sephiroth, who is leaning against the safety bars beside the enormous windows of the airship. The water seems to glitter through the glass, but all Sephiroth can think of is the crystal and the will power it took him just to turn his back on his _real_ mother.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

Vincent shakes his head, crossing over to where the man stands at the helm. “I think we need to have a proper meeting.”

Cid looks once again to the leather-clad man on his ship as if he can smite him where he stands. “You want me to trust him, just like that? Just ‘cause some dead lady says he’s good?”

The flash of anger in Vincent’s eyes is brutal, though Cid does not notice.

“We should talk about this,” Aerith agrees gently, standing between the man at the helm and the one at the window, as if she can interpret their silent standoff. “And I think we should start gathering AVALANCHE together.”

“Yuffie should be the first. She’ll be a good test of his character,” Vincent decides, arms crossing over his chest and his metal claw clicking against the buckles on his absurd outfit.

Aerith nods. “She hates him for different reasons.” She tries a smile, nervously forced, over her shoulder at Sephiroth, who has been silent since the caves. “Red XIII too. I know he’ll trust my word, no matter what.”

“And what’re we gonna do about Cloud?” Cid spat, hands white-knuckled on the barricade that was built to keep him from toppling to the floor. “The second they lay eyes on each other, they’re gonna try to kill—“

“Cloud trusts me,” Aerith says, and the certainness in her voice makes Cid reel back, the red in his face turning a more healthy shade. The man’s going to give himself a heart attack at this rate. “I can try to communicate with him and Tifa—“

“We need to deal with one at a time. First, Yuffie and Red XIII. We’ll deal with Cloud and Tifa last.” Vincent decides that the meeting is over by that point, crossing over to the computer. “Yuffie said she was visiting the canyons, so we can get two for one.”

Silent agreement seems to seep through the airship, Cid spitting the butt of his cigarette into a tray beside his helm before he grabs it, eyes focused sharp on the windows rather than anyone else. Aerith seems to relax, though her hands are still against her stomach, clasped, head bowed as if she’s in prayer. The airship coughs to life, stuttering on liftoff as they begin to go straight upwards.

“I have no say in this, then?”

Aerith is the only one to turn to acknowledge him, the storm still in her eyes, pink lips parted slightly in wonder before she recovers enough to speak. “You need to meet them. We need to get introductions and trust established before we can pull together to take on Hojo and Jenova.” She says all of this as if it’s the most obvious thing, which it is, but there are still bugs crawling in his veins. Seeing his mother has only intensified the uncertainty.

Sephiroth is never one to be uncertain. He is a mountain of confidence, but an avalanche of doubt has chipped away parts of his resolve. He is no longer son of Jenova, SOLDIER General, Demon of Wutai. He is no longer the poster child of ShinRa. He is a monster, isn’t he?

He is no longer sure of who, or what, he is.

He simply nods at Aerith's words, quietly dismissing himself to get out of the cockpit, where the air is thick with tension and doubt. Aerith’s eyes linger on him, burning vibrant green holes into his back as he exits through the heavy metal door and begins walking through the tunnel-like halls of the ship, following the piping and the sparse windows.

He has no idea where he’s going—He has been on airships before, but never one so isolated. ShinRa’s airships were often overloaded with soldiers, mechanics, and everyone else who could be relevant in the most vague of relations. But Cid’s ship seems to be barren, and it’s a small wonder how only he and Vincent could pilot it on their own. Regardless, he savors the loneliness, giving himself time to breathe as his mind attempts to process everything.

He is the son of Lucrecia Cresent, who believes and trusts in him. It isn't much for his self-esteem, but it's done wonders for his muddled identity. He only needs to find out who she is, or rather, was.

He has been brought back for the single task of defeating Jenova and Hojo. That isn't much good for his esteem either. He is but a pawn in Aerith's plans, much as he had been in Jenova's. But he trusts Aerith, somehow, and he will likely follow her orders. Subordinate is not a title he wears well, but he has little choice in the matter.

He is living, again. Free of Jenova’s control, for the time being. He does not know how long this will last, if at all. He does not know if this is permanent. He does not know much about this point.

He is being trusted to work with AVALANCHE, a ragtag group that once aimed to cripple ShinRa in the name of the Planet. An absurd and poorly-planned idea, but he has little choice to object. After all, perhaps this will serve as a sort of atonement, if possible.

He had nearly destroyed the Planet in one fell swoop, and now he is being trusted to save it. A crazed decision, surely.

He finds himself in the cargo hold, inspecting a few boxes out of curiosity. It’s nothing interesting—Hardware, for the most part, but there are crates of food and a locked metal box labeled FRAGILE and PRODUCT OF WUTAI. He figures that it contains wine, as Wutai does not produce much else that clinks against steel.

He chooses this crate as his seat, and spends the short journey to Cosmo Canyon in silent meditation, calming the buzz of his overworking mind.

He feels the airship land before he moves from his spot, his mind reduced to a low hum that matches the sound of the dying motors. He finds his way back out and to the main loading bay, quietly following Aerith as she embarks first.

Cosmo Canyon is one of the few places that Sephiroth has never been. The closest he has ever been is the Gold Saucer, though a part of him reminds him that the Temple of the Ancients is much closer than that. He remembers a pink dress turning red, and clears the memory by inhaling the sharp scent of sun-scorched clay. It is beautiful out here, a charm of its own, and the sun is already midway in the sky, beating down relentlessly. The humidity in Midgar is pale in comparison to the dry heat here, despite the proximity to the ocean.

His moment of taking in his surroundings (he is just now noticing the village that ascends the mountains) is interrupted by a loud whoop, someone scrambling down the orange peak with a massive cat jumping behind with far more grace.

“That’s Yuffie and Red, alright,” Cid mutters, pushing past Sephiroth none-too-gently. “Keep your panties on. This might get bad.”

Vincent stands on Sephiroth’s other side, and Sephiroth cannot ignore the protective aura the man seems to project, his single human hand nearing the weapon on his thigh.

The girl, sixteen at best and clearly dressed for the heat, skids to a halt at the base of the mountain, the lion behind her coming to rest just in front of her. The lion's dark, impossibly human eyes immediately focus on the three standing in a line at the end of the bridge.

Yuffie, he assumes the girl is, doesn’t notice. “Cid! Whatcha doin’ here? Brought me anything good?” And it’s then that she leans, peering around the chain smoking man with a grin that almost instantly changes into a look of mass confusion.

“A-Aerith…?”

Aerith smiles and steps forward, opening her arms in a small gesture. “Hello, Yuffie.”

Yuffie seems to look at Cid, then at Red XIII, who looks oddly pleased, before she bolts. She crashes into Aerith’s embrace like a tidal storm, knocking the woman back a few steps with her arms wrapped tight around her waist, face burrowed into her bosom as wordless cries come out muffled.

Red XIII sits his haunches down about six feet in front of Sephiroth. He remembers the lion—The beast. He remembers breaking into Hojo’s lab and seeing him there, encased in glass with specimen titles replacing his real name, but Sephiroth had been too preoccupied with his task to notice.

“If you’re with Aerith, I can only assume to trust you,” are his wise words, glass beads clinking where they entwine his mane. He turns to Aerith, who is still in a tight embrace with Yuffie, and then regards the man before him once again. “You must think my surprise is muted, don’t you?”

Sephiroth merely gives a shrug in reply, arms crossing over his chest, leather sticking to his chest. “To each their own.”

Something akin to a laugh leaves the lion’s throat, his head shaking before he turns to view Cid. “Perhaps I’m the only one that saw this coming.”

“Damn right,” Cid muttered, scuffing out his cigarette in the dirt, ignorant to Red XIII’s irritated and scolding look. “How the hell’d you guess that?”

His head turns back to Sephiroth, pushing himself to a standing stance. Sephiroth is reminded of the robotic Cait that used to ride his haunches, and wonders where he is. “It was inevitable. He’s the only one that knows how to kill Jenova. Not to mention that he probably has the best ideas as to where Hojo is. The only surprise is that Aerith was able to bring herself back, too. Though, we always knew she hadn’t _really_ died, didn’t we? It’s a very tactical approach to what needs to be done, and I’ll trust her decision for the good of the Planet.”

He stiffens at that. He knows it’s true, but it only serves to remind them that he’s being used. There’s no promise that he may be killed after this, or sent back to the dark depths where he once lingered as an unconscious mind. Though, does he really dislike death? He isn’t sure. It would be better than living on a decaying Planet where a majority of the occupants despise him, if not all of them.

Almost on cue, Yuffie breaks from the embrace, wiping her eyes frantically before she freezes, apparently noticing Sephiroth for the first time. She says nothing, though the hatred that passes behind her dark eyes is almost tangible. She looks to Aerith, who now has a decent-sized wet spot on her bosom that’s rapidly evaporating in the heat, then to Red XIII, who looks quite sure of himself, and then back to the monster that was once known for ravaging her homeland for the sake of Mako reactors.

“What’s going on?” Her voice is small, wary, and it is so unlike the energy she has shown so far that he wonders if she’s about to faint.

Aerith gently reaches for Yuffie’s fingers, and they entwine almost instantly. It reminds him of a sight Lucrecia gave him—A mother gently guiding a child through the horrors of the world. He wonders if Aerith was the glue that had held AVALANCHE together, before her death.

“We should talk on the airship,” Vincent decides, and it’s obvious that his role in this odd little collection is to make decisions. He seems the most logical, though the odd protectiveness and the glances he had continued to steal since their departure from the caves showed that he might be more biased than he seems.

Sephiroth would really like to talk to him. Alone.

Yuffie just nods, and the group follows Cid back into the airship’s hull, but rather than going to the control room, they walk through tunnels and down and up stairs and a maze of piping until they find a room just within the machinery area, Cid swinging the door wide and ushering everyone in, his glare only slightly lighter than usual as Sephiroth walks through.

The interior is a meeting room, or as close to one as they could get. A long table takes up a majority of the small area, chairs shoved in to make room. A huge map of the Planet hangs crooked on the wall, a few thumbtacks or scribbles of coded notes defiling the worn paper. The place, like a majority of Cid’s ship, looks like it hasn’t been used in a while. There are more crates in here, these marked as FRAGILE, but boxed in wood and sawdust. Weapons, if Sephiroth has to wager a guess.

Everyone takes a seat as if it’s rehearsed, as if they all know where to sit. Red XII forgoes a chair, though sits at the upper left corner, Vincent across from him. Yuffie chooses the lower right, Aerith quietly sitting beside her, hands still holding under the table as the Wutain girl looks as if she’s about to run and scream. Cid takes the seat beside Aerith, and Sephiroth lowers himself with great care into the chair beside Red XIII.

“You just moved this whole room to the new ship, didn’t you?” Aerith pipes up, attempting to shatter the thick tension in the air.

No one says anything. Cid lights a cigarette that has been tucked behind his ear. The match is snuffed in an ash tray on the otherwise barren table.

“We gonna have to have talks like this every fuckin’ time we pick someone up?” Cid mutters, words slurred around his cigarette.

“Let’s just get all the cards on the table now. We need to be organized when we go to Cloud.” Again, the voice of logic. Vincent’s clawed hand rests on the hardwood, clinking to get everyone’s attention. “Lucrecia says we can trust him, and I believe that. Also, it’s worth mentioning that Aerith seems to trust him.” That alone spoke volumes, and Cid’s jaw tenses.

Sephiroth calmly rests his hands on the table, nothing but the subject being discussed. He vows to himself to stay quiet.

“I trust him completely,” Aerith admits, giving him a hard, calculating stare across the table. “The only reason he did any of those things was because of Jenova, and I’ve been able to get him out from under her influence. With the creation of the remnants, Jenova unknowingly weakened herself, and I set to work then. It’s been a year in progress, I know, but the results are sitting here calmly at a table. I don’t know how long he’ll be able to avoid her influence—“

“So why risk it?” Yuffie suddenly barks, eyes wild like a feral dog. “Even before that, he—“

Aerith squeezes her hand and continues. “He’s been under her influence since he was a child.”

He has not been himself since he was five, maybe six. He has no idea who he is now. How old is he, even? Thirty? Twenty-eight?

“He knows the warning signs. He knows how to control it.”

She’s bluffing. How can he control his own mind when he doesn’t even know whose it is anymore?

“Not only that, but we need him. If we’re going to stand any chance against Jenova—“

“Wait, wait,” Cid interrupts, pressing forward onto the table, hands fisted. “The closer we get to Jenova, ain’t she gonna be able to get him easier?”

Aerith nods, chewing her lips. She’s probably holding her stomach. “Yes. But it’s the best chance we have.”

“What if we run in without him?” he counters, shooting daggers as words towards the silent man in question.

Aerith shakes her head. “Jenova is too powerful. We need someone that’s been able to resist her before.”

“Hasn’t Cloud done that?” Yuffie pipes in, her eyes never leaving Sephiroth’s blank expression. “Can’t he do it?”

Aerith looks downtrodden, sighing softly as she directs her gaze at the grain of the old table. There are scratches in it, and Sephiroth wonders if they’re from weapons. “We all know that Cloud isn’t the man he used to be…”

“You saw him against Kadaj, didn’t you?” Yuffie is nearly pleading, vouching for her friend as his rival sits across from her at a meeting table like some kind of joke. “He can still fight!”

“I also saw him nearly die at the hands of the figment Sephiroth he created,” she all but whispered to the table.

The room went still, silent. Sephiroth’s fingers curl, creaking leather in the quiet. The look on everyone’s face is the same—bitter acceptance. They knew that Cloud has fallen from grace. After all, he had never made it to SOLDIER, had he?

“Whether we want to admit it or not, Sephiroth is stronger,” Aerith continues, her voice gaining strength as she locks eyes with the ex-General across from her, green eyes so alive they could hold worlds within them. “He was able to resist her full control for twenty years. The only way she broke through was when he found out about her—When a crack appeared in his resolve and sanity. I don’t know about you all, but he seems plenty sane to me.”

He doesn’t know if he should take that as a compliment or not.

Her pause is met with silence, and he sees a fire in her eyes. She’s growing frustrated.

“We need Sephiroth _and_ Cloud. They’ve both broken out of Jenova’s chains. Cloud did so with Tifa’s help, and so she’s important as well. We need everyone—I was thinking of contacting Reeve to see if the WRO is established enough so we might borrow soldiers from him.”

The table erupts.

Cid slams his fists down so hard that the ashtray hops a few inches. “If we’re gonna get a fuckin’ army, why do we need Sephiroth?!”

Yuffie looks utterly distraught, doe eyes wide. “They’d never even work together! _I_ don’t even wanna work with him!”

Red XIII speaks loudly, but his voice is lost in the noise. “Does anyone have a better plan? Our choices are too slim. We need to trust Aerith and her decisions.”

A gun fires, a metallic ringing in the new hole above them, a bullet lodged in the ceiling. Silence falls almost instantly, Vincent standing at the head of the table with a look that could kill.

“Whether we like it or not, Sephiroth is with us now. Better with us than against us.” Aerith nods at that point, but Vincent continues. She rubs her abdomen. “Behind Hojo’s influence and Jenova’s control, I believe Sephiroth is worthy of our trust.”

The table erupts again, but a second bullet trapped in the ceiling gets them to stop. Cid yells about putting holes in his ship, but Vincent ignores him.

“Think about it for a moment. He was raised by Hojo, yes, but he grew to hate him when he found about the experiments that led to his conception. He has no reason to be against us, if only that he feels a connection to Jenova. Even so, he likely feels that connection due to the link he still holds with her. He knows more about the experiments and Jenova’s makeup than any of us. Perhaps he even knows more than I do.” He pauses, gauging reaction. Cid looks sour, Yuffie has regained her color, and Aerith looks relieved that someone is on her side. Red XIII is silent. “Aerith trusts him and believes that he’s our only chance. I don’t see any reason we cannot trust her judgement.”

Yuffie’s head drops and she murmurs an apology. Aerith pats her shoulder as she stands, a small smile beginning to temper her lips. “Is everyone on board?” Her eyes settle on Sephiroth and his fingers uncurl, palms flat on the table.

“I’ll get a hold of Reeve,” Vincent volunteers, pulling a simple phone from his pocket and flipping it open, looking at it as if he has no idea how to use it before he recovers. Remembers. “I’ll leave you and Sephiroth out of it. See what he says.”

“Thank you,” Aerith says, nodding to him as he excuses himself.

“I guess I’m in,” Yuffie sighs, stretching out her limbs before she deflates in the chair, half-heartedly glaring at Sephiroth. “But only if I get to punch him.”

“Yuffie,” Aerith scolds, restating her space as the young girl’s mother, or the closest thing she has to it.

She’s met with a frown, Yuffie balling her fist and pointing it at Sephiroth. “Just once?”

Sephiroth shrugs, pushing himself to his feet. “If it makes you feel better.”

Aerith looks at him with a mix of wonder, and the room seems to hold its breath as Yuffie bravely gets up, marching up to Sephiroth with her tiny fists balled tight, thumbs on the outside, good form. He remains still, arms limp at his sides, and nods towards her.

Her fist connects with his abdomen, but she yanks it back and begins hopping around in pain. Sephiroth only raises a brow, looking at the table to see Aerith biting on her finger to keep herself from laughing while Cid struggles to hold back a smile.

“I suppose that cements the fact that we won’t worry about him killing us,” Red XIII says, voice laced with amusement as he brushes out of the room, giving a small, “I’m on board” as he leaves.

Aerith sighs her giggles away, gently cradling Yuffie’s fist. A green light emates from her hands and Sephiroth is at a pause, before he remembers that she’s a Cetra. Healing, of course, is part of that package. But if he was Cetra too…

Before he could get too far, Yuffie climbs onto a chair and punches him square in the nose with her newly healed fist.

He stumbles back, in shock if nothing else, and a gloved hand raises to feel for any breaks along the bone or cartilage. Along with temperature, his muted nerves also keep him from noticing much pain. A more durable SOLDIER, at the risk of earning a life-threatening wound and not even noticing. Though, good when a Wutain teenager breaks the nose of said SOLDIER. (Though, he doesn’t get to hold that title anymore, does he?)

Yuffie barks out a victorious laugh, fists on her hips. “That felt good! I’m in!”

Popping his nose back into the correct place, Sephiroth turns, following the women’s line of gaze to Cid, who is deep in thought with his cigarette between his fingers. He doesn’t look at them, staring hard at the glowing orange, at smoke curling upwards. This is the calmest Sephiroth has ever seen him, and the pilot emits a long sigh before he voices his apparent decision.

“Those were some good points, but we got one more thing to be askin’.”

Aerith tilts her head, stepping closer. “What is it?”

He looks up, beyond her, to the silver haired man that’s sporting a bit of blood under his nose. He hears him mutter something about gods bleeding before he raises his voice.

“Are you with us, Sephiroth?”

“Give me a weapon and I’ll fight alongside you,” is the only thing he can think of to say.

Cid smiles. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be armed when we go recruit Spikey, but good that.”

Yuffie laughs.

\--

They end up in another part of the ship that seems to have been modified for the sole purpose of killing time. An old arcade machine is rusting in the corner, Yuffie screaming something fierce every time her pixelated character dies, Red XIII attempting to give her advice when she respawns. Cid and Vincent are in a lethal game of Go Fish! at a small folding table with a bottle of Scotch between them and Aerith is busy making the dusty cots for them to rest on. Sephiroth simply stands off to the side, watching the sun drop further down the horizon.

Vincent had informed them that the WRO was still a work in progress, but Reeve had promised at least twenty soldiers to work with them, including Cait Sith. He has also agreed to fund their trip, to which Cid eagerly announced that he would be willing to drive them anywhere in his ship, so long as Reeve covers the high price of fuel and upkeep. Of course, Reeve is kept in the dark about Sephiroth and Aerith, but that may be for the better. At least until battle plans can be rightly formed.

They had a small meeting during which Vincent concluded what they discussed over his phone call, and all parties agreed that it would be best to move as fast as possible. Yuffie and Red XIII had made a few runs into the canyon’s town for supplies—fresh food, mostly -and they had all agreed that their next stop be Edge. Apparently, Barret was also there, spending a visit with Marlene before he returned to the oil rigs in Corel. Cid had called him under the guise of having a drinking night after Seventh Heaven closed its doors, and so left them to where they were now.

Waiting for sundown.

Aerith had pulled him aside after the meeting, under the guise of preparing lunch with him. While they slathered together chicken sandwiches and buttered corn, she had explained to him that Cloud would be difficult, if not impossible, to get to agree to the plan. She had high hopes for Barret and Tifa to agree, but Cloud held a grudge big enough to smother himself.

“Since he defeated the remnants, I think he believes you’re gone for good,” she had said, frowning at the butterknife she was attempting to smooth over a cob of butter. “Though, he knows that my consciousness lives on. If he sees me first, he may be more likely to agree.” She had blushed then, and he wondered what secrets were held between her and the blond. “We… We were very close. He trusts me, I know he does. It’s just that… he blames you. For everything. I used to think he was right, but his anger is misplaced… That’s why I think he’ll go along with us to destroy Jenova. It’s just… _you_.”

He had agreed to the silly promises to be as peaceful as possible and not to get a rise out of the blond, but he had stopped promising once he was given food and he realized just how hungry he really was. (He had eaten two sandwiches and four cobs of corn.)

The game of Go Fish! ends in a splutter of curse words as Vincent wins (again) and Sephiroth knows that he won’t get another chance. The man has only had a single glass of Scotch, whereas Cid’s cheeks are red from the stuff. When he’s approaching the table, Cid is pouring himself another glass, and Vincent looks up at him from his seat with patience expectance.

“May I speak to you in private?”

Vincent agrees and stands, promising Cid that he’ll be back to win again shortly and that he better start watching his bets or pick a better game. The two of them walk silently out of the room, and Vincent crosses into another just down the hall. It’s small, filled with bales of hay and an empty trough. Vincent explains shortly that it’s a chocobo stable and he takes a seat on a bale of hay. Sephiroth remains standing.

“What did you want to discuss?”

A lot of things, if he’s honest. He wants to know what the WRO is, why Reeve Tuesti works there, if he’s some sort of leader here, how he knows about the experiments, how he knows _Lucrecia_. And he decides on that for his question.

“How do you know Lucrecia?”

Something akin to sorrow, to loss, flashes behind narrow eyes, and he almost regrets asking. The man is silent for a moment, eying Sephiroth for a time before he speaks. “She was a scientist in Hojo’s labs. She aided him in the research of Jenova, as well as creating Summon Materia. At the time, I was a Turk working as her bodyguard at the ShinRa Mansion.”

He does the math quickly. He knows that Summon Materia was around when he was a child, so if it was still in development when Vincent was old enough to be a Turk…

“Lucrecia and I… We had a bond. Neither of us were able to fulfil what could have been there, and yet we cared for each other deeply. I thought of marrying her one day.” He shakes his head, metal fingers flexing at the memory. “When Hojo proposed a womb with Jenova cells, Lucrecia was the only available assistant. She was brave. I… foolishly thought that she might pick me to father the child, but Hojo succeeded in the end. I know it wasn’t love between them, just a mad thirst for science.” He looks disgusted, even below the mask of his cowl. “There was… a conflict. I tried to stop the experiment when it was already underway. Hojo shot me—A fatal wound. Lucrecia saved me, though she was weak with the hell Jenova was wrecking on her body and her womb. She…” His hand flexes again, and something flashes across his features as if he’s fighting with himself. “She… fused me with Chaos. In order to save my life. She had been friends with my father when she was young, just a budding scientist… He was the one who introduced her to Chaos, to the idea of creating Summons. When Chaos attacked in the lab not a full year later, he sacrificed himself to save her. Perhaps I just reminded her of him… Perhaps it was never love, but just a longing.”

Silence ticks by in silence, and Sephiroth isn’t sure what to say.

“The cave where she is now… It’s the same fountain where Chaos first appeared, where she had gotten her first sample. Chaos was her proudest work… Perhaps she thought that she could prove Chaos to be good if it saved my life, just as it ended my father’s. I should have tried to stop the experiment before it even began. I was too late, yet she saved me regardless… This is my punishment for that sin. I could have prevented all of this from happening, yet here I am. Immortal. Being home to a monster. It’s all part of the deal.”

Monsters. Immortal. Beasts spawned from science that has gone too far. “You and I are alike in that manner,” Sephiroth finally spoke, words soft and measured in the quiet.

He looks up, dark hair framing his face in a gloomy manner. He is far past the point of crying about the past. He has used his sorrow to build walls around himself, and Sephiroth can respect him for that. “She had visions of you,” he confesses, casually. “She said sometimes she dreamed of you and fire. Blood and destruction. Other times, she dreamed of Jenova. Of a comet, a Meteor, impacting the Planet and destroying it. I should have tried to stop it even then, but Hojo had convinced her somehow to hang onto it. She wanted to believe you would be a good son.”

Sephiroth swallows, echoing words repeating in his mind. Lucrecia is proud of him. She loves him. She’s still alive, somehow, somewhere. He wants to find her.

“As far as I’m concerned,” he sighs, standing from the hay bale and knocking loose strands off, “you’re her son, and Hojo is no father to you. I promised her, when she came to me with nightmares that you might come to kill her, that Jenova would eat her from the inside, that I would care for you.”

It seems ridiculous. Vincent is much older than he appears, yes, but Sephiroth is a grown man. He has no use for a godfather. For a sorry excuse of parenthood once his childhood has run from him.

“I know it’s odd,” he rumbles, the fingers of his metal hand still click-clicking in a nervous tick. Perhaps that’s the hand that Chaos took—Sephiroth remembers reading the records of it, but they burned long ago and he cannot recall the details. “You’ve never had a parental figure until you discovered Jenova. But now you know that she _isn’t_ your real mother. Lucrecia is, and I’m the closest thing to a father you have.”

“I appreciate the concern,” he says evenly, his brain still working on processing this information, filing it away into neat little stacks for later investigating. “But I’m a grown man. I do not need a father. You’re nearly thirty years too late.”

That line seems to pull more sorrow, more loss out of Vincent’s calm expression. “I know.”

“Then let’s continue as partners in this fight, and nothing else.”

He nods, a small dimple showing above his cowl. “I’m just as eager to kill Hojo as you are, I imagine.”

A bitter laugh leaves his lips as he opens the door for them to leave. “Somehow, I can believe that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise the ships will sail soon ok  
> ps: how many of you caught that pirates of the caribbean reference?


	5. GAMES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension only serves as a crutch, never a cane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as long as I would have preferred, but I'd rather split it here than have a 10k+ chapter full of Cloud feels.  
> (That being said, Cloud's coming up and I send a sincere apology to Reno and Rude for this chapter.)
> 
> As always, thank you so, _so_ much for all the comments and kudos! You're all phenomenal!
> 
> i have a [tumblr](http://www.apljooce.tumblr.com)

When they return, it’s to Cid loudly declaring a game of poker and Yuffie dragging chairs noisily into the room. Sephiroth has little say in the matter as a slightly buzzed Cid begins dealing cards, and so he opts to sit between Vincent and Red XIII on one of the chairs. Red remains on the floor, per usual, and Sephiroth can’t _wait_ to see how a cat can play cards, but as his paws land on the cards and his nails curl around them, he’s holding his hand as well as the next person.

Saying that he isn’t impressed by the beast’s dexterity would be a lie.

Bets are made in gil, though it’s not much. A handful of pocket change from Yuffie, Vincent tossing in ten gil, Red confessing he was broke, and Cid upending his pockets to place bets on Aerith and Sephiroth’s behalves, on top of himself. They play civilly, though they sent teasing jeers at others in bluffs and confident claims. Sephiroth feels oddly alienated in this game, yet the way he is always pushed to take his turn or reveal what he holds makes him feel welcome.

There is still a tenseness in the air that he doesn’t believe will fade any time soon, but perhaps the Scotch and competition is working some kind of magic on them all.

Not to mention that he’s absolutely getting his ass handed to him in the forms of royal flushes and straight aces.

He’s played poker before, yes, but with the two men he called friends and more for boredom killing than fun. They saw it as a strategy game, and the bets would range from classic gil or paperwork duties or material possessions. Genesis had once won Sephiroth’s couch out from under him, quite literally.

He feels like a child as he participates, though he remains silent beyond demands of the game. Idle chatter or playful taunts make up most of the noise, drowning out the chirping eight-bit tune of the old arcade machine in the corner. The Scotch is nearly empty by now, and it’s clear how close this group is as they all drink out of the same two glasses that Cid and Vincent had owned before. He can’t help but notice a pink flush on Aerith’s cheeks just after her first drink, and he almost laughs when Cid offers her more and she has to politely decline. Of course, Cid’s offers get rarer and rarer as the game’s stakes rise, and he joins Sephiroth in last place.

(Yuffie wins two games straight and Cid is absolutely _livid_ , and so they compromise with a game of Old Maid that Aerith patiently teaches them.)

Old Maid is significantly more tame than poker had been, but Red XIII opts to sit this one out and play referee to keep it that way. But when Yuffie wins _again_ , Aerith starts laughing as Cid slams his cards now and announces that Yuffie _has_ to be cheating somehow.

(She is, but Cid’s reaction is so amusing that no one bothers to tattle on her.)

* * *

For dinner, they have fish and seasoned rice.

Yuffie is the one that helps Aerith now, the men (and the cat-like beast that is more human than he appears) are left to lurk in the small dining area as the scent of frying ocean fish begins to moisten their mouths. Cid has made tea, sipping his with a properness that does not match his gruff appearance, and Vincent has chosen to simply stare into his for minutes at a time before lifting his mouth free from his cowl. Sephiroth thinks the man reminds him of a turtle.

Since their discussion, they have said little to each other. Whenever something small had come up to attempt to turn the tables back against the man they still did not feel to be trustworthy, Vincent had stepped in with proof and reassurance that their fears were unwarranted. He seemed to have established himself as a familial figure, protective of Sephiroth when he must and gravitating closer to him when the tension in the air began to buzz again.

Sephiroth sits with his own cup of tea, black-clad hands curled around the mug. His mind has wandered far beyond testing the tea for flavor, origin, and strength, and he is now wondering where he might be able to get a change of clothes. His leathers are comfortable, familiar, and yet the stench of ash and blood makes him want to vomit. He knows he is a creation of war—a weapon that scientists had madly formed when they were weak with other ideas. He knows that he is built to find the armors of war to be comfortable, and it makes him a little sick to know that this is true, but he is also sure that he could grow to be just as comfortable in a pair of pressed fabric pants and a shirt.

He wonders how long it will take for someone to ask why he never removes his gloves.

The tea is oddly paired with the meal, though it tastes good, and they eat in relative silence. Discussion often occurs, only to die out few sentences later. Sephiroth can tell that his presence makes them uncomfortable. They seem hesitant to speak when he is there, as if they all have secrets to keep. The previous atmosphere from earlier seems to have sizzled and died, stagnant in the air as tension seeps over it. They didn't seem too keen on making him a friend, and he wonders if the poker and Old Maid were just tricks to see what makes him tick. 

He knows that they're all afraid of him, but does not know how to fix it. Perhaps he ought to try.

Then again, doesn’t he have his fair share of skeletons in his closet?

(He isn’t sure. These people seem to know more about him than he does.)

As their plates grow emptier, the silence fills with weight. The sun turns the interior of the ship orange, reflecting off of dry clay formations as they filter through the glass windows. Their teacups are emptied and Cid makes a poor choice in jokes when he offers Junon imported vodka or Wutain wine to break the ice. No one laughs, though Aerith says something under her breath that sounds like an agreement to more alcohol.

The sun is setting, and the purples and pinks look like watercolor against the blues and oranges, and it should be beautiful.

Instead, Cid stands and exits, and Aerith softly asks to speak with Sephiroth alone.

They end up in the small, cramped kitchen, the smell of fish rotting away in the trash disposal. Dirty dishes are piled in the sink, and Aerith sets on turning on the faucet to wash them so she doesn’t have to look at the man beside her as he awkwardly picks up a towel to dry the first cup she gives him.

(She sets it on the counter between them, as if terrified to hand it to him properly.)

“I know things are going fast,” she begins, her words carefully picked. She sounds as if she’s walking on eggshells, and he supposes she is. He’s still slightly awed that she is able to speak with him alone, given how guarded she always seems whenever she comes within arm’s reach of him. “I just… I don’t know how long any of this is going to last. How long our physical bodies will last in this plane…” She sighs, and he sees how tired she is. He sees the slouch in her shoulders, the lines of stress on her cherub face. Her hair, still wrestled back with a greasy band of rubber, sticks to her neck and shoulders with sweat, though the kitchen is cool. “We need to do this as soon as possible. We can’t take our time. Jenova can reclaim you at any moment, and—“ A fork clatters to the bottom of the sink and she flinches, entire body jolting at the noise. She picks it up again with shaky fingers and continues.

He continues drying teacups as if he saw nothing.

“We’re working against time right now. I know that Cloud is going to be… _difficult_ , but we need him. If we can get him and the others, and Reeve’s support… Hopefully we can ensure the Planet’s safety for good. It’s… It’s our duty.”

 _Duty_.

She says it with such vindication that he almost blindly accepts it.

But he sees the cracks in her armor now. Before, she was fire. Untamed, engulfing everything around her with womanly charm and a wit as sharp as the blade that had ended her. She is no longer a woman with square shoulders and livid determination in her eyes, but the fragile flower she would rather hide. No matter how strong she may be, blooming through concrete in the slums, she is still a flower. She is still mortal, no matter Cetran blood. Behind it all, she is human in her ways.

Beyond it all, he scares her.

She has not forgotten what he has done. Jenova or not, she cannot replace his face. His laugh. His cruelty. She cannot simply wipe from her mind that he was, and maybe is still, _evil_. They’re working against time, as she said. Jenova can regain her hold at any moment. At any moment, he can take the carving knife that he’s drying and put it through her ribs before setting out and murdering everyone else aboard.

He will not do these things.

This is the first time someone has offered him a second chance, and he does not want to spoil it. (Though, he isn’t exactly _happy_ with the way things are turning out.)

He had once questioned his mortality—Conversations shared with the men he called friends as they lounged about bonelessly in the heats of Midgarian summers, a bottle of chilled wine being shared between them despite their inability to feel the buzz of it all.

Genesis, always with the flare for the dramatic, announced that the Goddess would be waiting for him in the afterlife. He claimed _Loveless_ to be just as holy as a poor man’s bible, and he believed that he would be cradled in the world of the dead with a goddess of immeasurable beauty and spirit.

Angeal had been more realistic—The early death of his father had put his own mortality in a sharper focus for him. He did not quite believe in an afterlife, but he was a strong believer in karma. He believed that man was reborn as the trees, the grass, the birds. He believed that everything was as old as the Planet itself, just reborn with more purpose. Genesis had made a jab announcing that Angeal would be reincarnated as a dog, loyal and proud to a fault. Angeal laughed and accused him of confusing himself with his energetic student.

Sephiroth believed in nothingness.

He believed that, after death, there was simply nothing. Just as there was nothing from the time before you were born, there would be nothing after your last breath had left your lungs. It was blissful, in a way, to know that there was nothing to fear, and yet nothing to look forward to. Perhaps it would be like sleeping. An eternal rest, undisturbed by no one.

He never knew that death was not the last journey.

He still does not know why he has returned.

“It’s more than just using you,” she continues, having regained her composure as he sets the knife aside, picking up a soap-covered fork that is more bent than it ought to be. She seems to have picked up on his thought process immediately, and he wonders if she really _can_ read minds outside of the Lifestream. “I know that’s probably how you feel… That we’re just using you to get close to Hojo and Jenova. We’re not, though. _I’m_ not.” She takes a breath and hands him a plate, taking a moment to look into his Mako-infused eyes. He wonders what they look like; if the Mako has faded along with Jenova. If his pupils are still cat-like slits, ever-watching. He wonders if they scare her.

“I just wanted to give you a chance at redemption,” she says, voice soft. Her eyes have not left his. He sees the green fire relight. “I want to believe that you’re a good man. I don’t want you to prove me wrong.”

“I cannot make any promises.”

She smiles, though her lips quiver, and returns to scrubbing dishes in silence.

She brings up the topic of redeption, though he does not wish to redeem himself. His sins are too numerous, too horrible, to ever forgive. If there is a goddess, or some reincarnated dog out there, he doubts he could ever earn their forgiveness. He is still surprised that Aerith has forgiven him—Even though there is still a tremble in her frame if he gets too close, or her hands clutch her stomach as if she’s checking for blood. He has done nothing to gain her forgiveness, and he never asked for it in the first place. He is being used, and he knows this. The only reason she must be putting up with his presence is the fact that he can get them to Hojo. He can get them to Jenova.

“Can you hand me that frying pan? It should be cool enough to wash.”

He has never particularly been one for small talk, even as he hands over the pan as asked. He is no stranger to words—In fact, he likes to think that he is rather good with them. Perhaps not as eloquent as Genesis, but he knows his way around twisting words and phrases to get what he wants. The problem is that he often isn’t sure how to fill silences with meaningless drabble. Small talk with a woman that he murdered in another life is a bad idea, in the first place.

(Perhaps this is all the same life, and his death was simply a bad dream.)

“Once we figure out a plan, I’d like you to take charge,” she says as she hands him the now-cleaned frying pan, reaching down through dirty suds to pull the drain. “I don’t think Cloud will want to take charge, if you’re involved… He’s not likely to listen to your orders, either, but you know the most about what we’re dealing with.” Her lips perk up in the corners, and though it does not reach her eyes, the amusement in her voice betraying her quivering, weak smile. “Besides, you’re a General, aren’t you?”

He can’t deny that being promised a leading role relieves him. He is not made to follow, and something akin to anxiety has been crawling within him as the others speak of him as if he is not present. It has been years since he’s conducted soldiers as a general, but he knows it’s a skill that is not easy to forget. “I think I can manage this poor excuse of an army you’re building.”

She seems surprised as he veers the word _you_ at her, big green eyes blinking for a moment before she seems to understand, a light flush on her cheeks. “It wasn’t entirely my idea…”

He tilts his head at her in question, putting the damp towel down as the dishes are completed. She sighs, blush still lingering.

“Zack… said we needed to try.”

Something inside of him twists, like a knife he had forgotten where it punctured his stomach. He remembers a man with too much excitement to be thrust into battle. A puppy, as affectionately nicknamed. A young man high on love, success, and dreams. He remembers his friend taking a liking to the boy like a father to a son. He remembers, from a memory that may not be his, the grief on the face of a blond that was dragging a sword once made for honor across the barren sands outside of Midgar. Dreams had died, and a single man was going to try his best to carry them on.

She doesn’t notice his discomfort.

“He passed on… It was unfair of me to keep him on my Plane for so long. His last wish, before he passed on, was that I put an end to Hojo’s experiments and Jenova’s control. That I trust you…” She sighs again, a tired sound, and grabs the discarded towel to wipe her hands clean. “He respects you a lot, you know. He always did. What happened to you… He was so upset. He believed that there might be a way to save you. He insisted that I try.”

The knife twists harder. Deeper.

“Aerith!”

The moment shatters as the door opens, Yuffie in the doorway, out of breath as if she’s been running laps. Aerith starts over to her, only to halt in something like _fear_ at Yuffie’s next words.

“Cid says we’re taking off in five. He wants you up in the cockpit… _thingy_. Whatever.”

The sky is a deep purple now with cotton candy clouds, peaceful against the reds and oranges of the canyon. The beauty is ruined by the tension that makes it hard to breathe, and Sephiroth pays little attention as Aerith and Cid share small whispers together. He picks up that Cloud will be guided to the ship, unarmed, to prevent any attacks. Everyone else is to be armed, except for Sephiroth and the blond.

He isn’t sure how he feels about this.

The flight is long, though the tension and the dread makes it seem short. Yuffie had disappeared somewhere just after takeoff, and Cid made a comment about buying her medicine for motion sickness. Sephiroth simply stood to the side, watching the world pass beneath clouds. Land, ocean, land again… By the time he begins recognizing the destruction of Midgar, Aerith is beside him, arms around her middle as she shifts with pent-up energy in her boots.

The land beneath them is nothing but grays and browns, small dots of outdated cars or motorbikes crawling through messy streets with practice. It reminds him of the slums, but worse, and he takes a step back from the window as the sight is interrupted by the beam of a searchlight.

“What the—“

“This is a no fly zone! Land immediately!”

“That’s what I was doin’!” Cid grumbles at the tinny, megaphone-enhanced voice. The engine hums lowly as the horizontal movements of the ship turn into vertical, lowering down to the bare outskirts of the town to land.

Sephiroth peers over through the window again to see the source of the light; a fully armed helicopter with a brilliant red diamond on the side.

The helicopter lands beside them as they land roughly on the ground, Cid muttering curses about “Shinra bastards” under his breath before he grabs his spear and marches for the exit, Vincent on his heels as a more diplomatic leverage. Aerith steps away from the windows as soon as movement is spotted in the chopper, grabbing Sephiroth’s wrist and yanking him back with a strength that her weedy arms are good at hiding.

“We can’t let them see us,” she mumbles, as Red XIII approaches them.

“Perhaps we ought to go to the cargo hold,” the lion suggests, hopping up onto his rear legs, front paws cushioning against the railing below the window as he looks up. “It’s the Turks.”

Rather than a simple observation, his statement sounds confused.

They watch, too curious to hide, as Cid and Vincent depart to meet with a dark, bald man and a scrawny redheaded counterpart. Their voices are audible through the glass, though the words are too muffled. Cid is leaning heavily against his spear, and Vincent seems as impassive as always, but the redhead takes a step forward with a deadly look on his face and the mood changes so fast that those still inside of the ship can _feel_ it.

The curiosity obviously gets the better of Red XIII, as he forgoes his post to trot through the open door and out of the bridge, looking defensive and dangerous. Sephiroth hears Yuffie storm out after him, and she immediately drops to her knees and vomits.

All over the Turks’ shoes.

Aerith makes a noise of disgust before she hides her face, turning her back to the windows as her throat makes a sympathetic gagging noise. Sephiroth merely grimaces as the Turks look increasingly frustrated and disgusted, taking rapid steps back when he swears that the dark man’s eyes had spotted him from behind tinted sunglasses.

“Let’s go,” Aerith says quickly, turning and stepping through the door before she breaks into a run, heading for the room with cots and the rusted arcade machine. Sephiroth follows, though he steals a second glance out the window and meets hidden brown eyes dead-on from where he is stepping out of vomit-soaked shoes.

He says nothing about this.

Aerith sighs heavily once they get into the small room, flopping down on one of the cots and smoothing her dusted skirt over her knees. Sephiroth merely crosses over to the window, the angle now showing the opposite side of the ship, and he finds himself staring at the town.

It looks dead. There’s no other way to describe it. The color seems to have been drained from this place, either from the winds blowing sand from the wastelands or the ragged appearance of the people. It’s a hodge-podge little town, clearly built in a hurry. Construction beams and catwalks and dormant cranes still litter the area, progress having slowed. It may be a young city, but there is promise in the land.

He and Aerith sit in silence, unbroken by meaningless small talk. Aerith’s hair has fallen over her shoulder, the dirty rubber band around her wrist as she uses her fingers to comb through fizzy curls. It’s more out of fidgeting than necessity that she does it, though she still lets out little sounds of pain when her fingers tangle in a particularly tough knot.

Sephiroth does nothing other than stare out the window, wondering of things to come.

This plan is half baked, at best. The only real, solid fact that they have is a goal. Above that, it’s a goal that seems nearly unattainable. Jenova and Hojo are likely the two most protected beings on the Planet, and for a ragtag group of once-terrorists, it is nowhere _near_ possible. Not only that, but they have enlisted the help of a _monster_ to aid them in their fight. A monster that no one in the group fully trusts, and one that a certain Cloud Strife will be more than eager to kill. Even if they don’t end up fighting or spilling more blood on the war-damaged earth, how could they possibly work together? Cloud blamed Sephiroth, once his idol, for everything. All the pain, the suffering, the _loss_. He blamed him for everything, and while Aerith had insisted that his hatred was in the wrong place, Sephiroth could not understand how he _wasn’t_ at fault.

He can’t understand why the woman he killed trusts him so much.

The door to the small rec room opens with a squeak of the hinges and Aerith rocks to her feet, the creaking of the old cot nearly defeaning. Sephiroth turns to view the intruder, only to find that it’s Cid, and he looks _very_ tired.

“This’s as close as we can get t’ Edge,” he informs them, words slurring around another cigarette as the smoke curls up towards the ceiling. “Me, Vince, Red, an’ Yuffie are gonna go to Seventh Heaven and try t’ get everyone on board. You two just sit tight ‘til we get back, yeah?”

Aerith nods, her hands still twisting at her hair. “What did the Turks want?”

If possible, Cid looks even _more_ irritated. He scoffs out a cloud of nicotine, shaking his head. “I’ll tell ya later. Better’n explaining it twice. All ya need to know is that they’re gone and won’t be back, so you can sit tight. I’ll give a call when we’re on our way.”

Aerith frowns, hands slipping from her hair. “We don’t have a phone…”

“Take mine,” he decides, digging around in his pocket before he finds what he’s looking for, tossing it to Aerith, who barely manages to catch it. “Don’t get outta the ship, and stay away from th’ windows.” And that’s his parting farewell, nodding to Aerith and sparing Sephiroth a long, hesitant look before he slips back out and the door weakly catches itself on the frame in his absence.

Aerith sighs, long and tired, and fiddles with the phone for a moment before she places it on the folded table where a near-empty bottle of Scotch and a deck of cards are still lying. She spares the playing cards a long look, as if she’s trying to decide on how they might waste their time, before she looks up and those swirling green eyes bore into his.

The tinny little eight-bit tune on the arcade machine glitches for a moment before it stops completely, the power of the ship completely shutting off as the others disembark. The only light comes from the strained lights of the town and the emergency flooders in the hallway and the single emergency bulb in their current room. Cid must have left them on on purpose.

“I was thinking about something,” Aerith begins, pulling out one of the folding chairs at the table and taking a seat, pulling her hair behind her head and beginning to braid it without struggle. “About Jenova’s influence on you.”

He simply raises a brow at her in a silent offer to continue, crossing over until he stands on the opposite side of the small table. He notices the way her fingers stutter for a moment at his proximity, but she’s quick to recover and return to her train of thought.

“I’m not really sure how Jenova controls people. I can only imagine it’s a combination of her physical and mental influence, using the power of her own cells against a weakened mind. That being said, I think it’s a good idea that you work on keeping your mind protected.”

“And how do you propose that?” he murmurs, pulling out the chair and sitting in front of her as she ties off her braid with the rubber band. Her legs shrink under her chair to avoid his feet, but he pretends that he doesn’t notice.

“From the Lifestream, I could interrupt someone’s mind and bring them to my plane. I told you I did that with Cloud once—He felt as if he was in a totally different place, yet he wasn’t. Sort of like an illusion. If I can do it from the Lifestream, I’m sure I can do it from here.”

Sephiroth has a feeling that he knows where this is going, and his gloves creak as he forms fists on the table. He says nothing, though he notices the way her storming eyes move from his open expression to his closed hands and back again. Calculating.

“I could try to pull you into another plane, and all you have to do is resist.”

He nods, hands slowly relaxing. “And how do I go about resisting?”

It’s her turn to raise a brow, at a loss for words. Her expression is blank, and he could almost laugh as her mouth pops open on a puff of air in lieu of words.

He relaxes more, shoulders still stiff as his hands open into weak cups against the table’s surface. He isn’t sure how to protect himself against mental assaults—He has only ever been faced with the physical actions of war. He’s heard of brainwashing, minds melting under torture and harsh conditions, though he has never had to fight against such things. He has never had a reason to. (He wonders if he has always been brainwashed to believe this, as that appears to be a lie.)

“Just… focus,” she attempts to instruct, her palms lying flat on the table. They just _barely_ make contact, the tips of her fingers softly brushing against his. He almost misses the feeling through his gloves. Her eyes close with a deep breath, and she’s perfectly still for a long time. Sephiroth just watches her, fire racing up the tips of his fingers and into his arms, filling him with an odd sense of adrenaline.

Suddenly, they are seated on the ground, legs crossed under themselves, tall yellow lilies swaying in an unseen breeze on a cloudless, sunless blue day.

She cracks an eye open, lips twitching into a frown. “Are you even trying?”

He frowns back at her, blinking at the church they are now seated in, in a pew and facing each other. “I don’t understand the point of this.” He _does_ , though. He understands exactly why Aerith has deemed this an important lesson, but he does not understand what he needs to be _doing_. How can he stop the church from turning back into the lily field?

She sighs heavily, a sound of frustration, before she closes her eyes again. Her brow wrinkles in concentration and suddenly, abruptly, Sephiroth is ripping his hands away and rocking to his feet.

He’s in a sterile white room, a wheeled chair tipped behind him from the force of his movements. Aerith is seated in another, facing him, her eyes still closed and face distorted in focus. The fluorescent lights hurt his eyes, blinding from the bleached white floor, but his eyes are wide and fixed on a metal tray with bloodied surgeon’s tools and the bloody body lying under a bloodied sheet on a bloody steel table—

The table with playing cards and a bottle of Scotch and a sleek flip phone slams so hard back into place that he’s left gasping, his chair on the floor and himself several steps back.

Aerith is smiling.

“You did it.”

He feels as if he’s about to vomit, but somewhere between the fear and the sickness and the _horror_ , he smiles back.

Her smile twists as she gestures to his chair. "Let's try again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waggles eyebrows suggestively  
>  _He's coming_


	6. CRACKS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick apology for how long this chapter took. I had some computer problems, lost the file, and then I ended up changing the plot _entirely_. But I think you'll like this route better than the other.
> 
> Also, I want to thank all of you for the comments! I've never had a story with such positivity and excitement around it. You guys are the reason I finally got off my butt and edited this thing.
> 
> Anyway, shall we?

He exhales sharply through his nose as he picks up his fallen chair, righting it and resuming his seat. The Cetra, looking oddly proud for either him or herself, reaches out to resume hold on his hands. It feels oddly  intimate , to stare into her eyes as he lets himself relax, attempting to push up mental defenses ahead of time. He knows she’s likely not as strong as JENOVA, that this practice may end uselessly… But he’s willing to try.

 

“Ready?”

 

But something lurches the docked ship and the emergency flood lights suddenly flash red as an ear-numbing siren threatens to make them deaf.

 

Aerith is on her feet in an instant, chair hitting the floor as she’s flinging the door to the hall open and dashing to the adjacent room like a bat out of hell. Confused, he follows, although with a more  restrained  intensity.

 

He remembers sirens for war in the middle of the night, grabbing Masamune and charging at unseen forces in the night without a second glance. He remembers how  calm was the key in those instances, to be able to think clearly and logically about the enemy they’ll be pit against.

 

This may not be a war situation, and he may not have a blade, but he’s ready to outsmart their opponent if he must.

 

The other room is much smaller, rather like a closet. The steel walls are lined with live screens of security feed, and Aerith makes a distressed  whine  when they catch a glimpse of the intruders before the camera is shot dead.

 

Turks, and a small army. They seem to be making as much noise as possible, as if trying to scare a bear out from its cave.

 

"Come on," she hisses, snagging his wrist and dragging him down the hall, down a set of stairs, back up another, through a door that could fit a whole ShinRa tank inside of it. (There is, actually, an off-roading truck in there.) 

 

They're in the cargo bay, and Aerith releases his wrist to fly through the boxes and crates until she finds what she's looking for, sliding the heavy lid off of a large wooden box with some difficulty and a small curse.

 

They hear the distant echo of another gunshot through the alarm, and they know another camera is dead.

 

"Here," she mutters, grabbing a bundle of stiff fabric and shoving it at his chest. The box is full of clothing, and it isn't until she digs past a ShinRa blazer with a logo over the breast pocket that he realizes these are disguises.

 

She has absolutely no shame as she yanks her sundress off and over her head, leaving her in a bra and her underwear as she starts pulling on her own disguise.

 

He pretends he does not see the scar on her abdomen. The one that is mirrored on her back as the entrance wound. He pretends that he is looking at her scarce clothing, as any man would.

 

He turns away for her decency.

 

He isn't uncomfortable changing in front of others- such was the norm in the military. He isn’t ashamed or embarrassed of his body in the slightest. But he's changing in front of a  woman , and he feels as if this is a step too far, but as they hear the slam of a door being kicked open, he remembers that they don't have the pleasure of privacy just yet.

 

He takes a short time in unstrapping and unbuckling his leathers, something he's been so ingrained into that he doesn't even think of it.

 

He hears Aerith jog off again as he unstraps his boots, unrolling his own option of disguises with a small grimace.

 

The pants (dark blue and military grade) are too short and a hair too tight, but he can mostly hide it by shoving the ends into his boots. The shirt he's given is white and nondescript, just barely long enough to cover his torso, and the icing on the cake is a worn blank shroud of a cape, the hood dipping so low on his face that he's likely invisible in the dark.

 

"Give me your clothes," comes a short order, and he turns to see Aerith holding out a cloth army-grade backpack that already has her dress shoved inside.

 

Her own disguise is much the same. She has a hooded cloak, a white shirt that looks too big, but the military pants he's wearing are replaced by dark cargo pants tucked into her boots.

 

He does as asked without staring, gathering his hair to put it under his own cloak as he pulls up the hood. There's another slam of a door followed by gunshots and Aerith slings the bag over her shoulder, grabbing his hand and dragging him through the cargo bay they can only see between flashes of red and distant flood lights.

 

They exit through a small door that requires a pass code that Aerith punches in easily, and it's a decent drop to the dried earth below. Neither of them say a word as they dash away, leaving a helicopter and a ShinRa military van behind them.

 

Sephiroth's training is prominent here, as he easily overtakes Aerith as they sprint across open ground and towards the awkward city of Edge. When she stumbles or trips on rocks or holes, his hand reaches to catch her, yet they dart apart again as soon as she’s recovered.

 

Once they get to the outskirts, Aerith is panting and they slow to a walk, trying to look as invisible as possible.

 

"Lots of nomads come through here," she says lowly once she catches her breath, as they step over a man that is either sleeping or dead in an alley. Hopefully the former, but he  smells like the latter. "We just look like travelers, so knock it off with that straight back."

 

He blinks at her, her face hidden beneath the shadow of her hood. She's tired, he knows, and her knuckles look white where they grab at the straps of her backpack. She’s looking straight ahead, alert and aware like a doe stepping through a freshly discovered field in search of the apple tree at the opposite end.

 

He almost offers to carry the bag for her, but he does not. He does, however, attempt to shake his body out of its permanently straight posture. The attempt is in vain, however—It simply feels too  odd  for him to slouch.

 

They weave through a few more alleys that are lurking with homeless and the stink of decay before they come into the city's center. There's a badly repaired crater in the middle of it, flowers laid around the hole as if in mourning. The mottled remains of a monument are ironically melted and twisted, too large for anyone to have moved or cleaned up. Or perhaps it’s just another memorial… for a newer tragedy.

 

The only thing he says is, "Do you know where you're going?"

 

There's a snort as she raises her chin, marching surely towards a seemingly random destination. "Of course I do."

 

He has his doubts, especially as her steps falter and she changes direction, hands tightening to fists on the cloth straps of her backpack as she scans the area.

 

The sun has completely disappeared by this point, leaving them only in the light of a few odd houses or half-functional streetlamps. It taints everything orange, the city itself looking brown and dirty, and they amble through empty streets for what must be nearing an hour before Aerith makes a noise of victory, sprinting the next few steps until she's at a back door with a bulky black motorcycle placed beside it.

 

Aerith pauses just shy of knocking on the door, but her hesitancy is a mutual affair.

 

Beyond that door, lay Cloud Strife.

 

Beyond that door, lay every possibility that Sephiroth could be killed.

 

Aerith takes a deep breath and gathers the courage to knock, the noise sounding sharp in the otherwise still night. It goes unanswered for some time and she begins to pat her pockets for the phone she had left on the Highwind when they hear steps, a lock sliding loose, and then the door opens.

 

It's Vincent.

 

He scowls and silently, quickly ushers them in. He guides them to a back room, an industrial kitchen with an impressive wine shelf, and Aerith begins explaining to the stoic man in hushed whispers about what has happened.

 

Once Vincent understands, he guides them to stash their cloaks in an empty cupboard, along with the bag full of their clothing. He explains that Cloud, Tifa, Barret, and the others are upstairs in the living quarters, and that Aerith should follow him first. They leave, though Sephiroth does not miss the look of concern on their faces.

 

"I think it's best that he come with me,” she whispers, stalling in the doorway. Vincent looks mildly surprised, but nods, and Sephiroth follows the two of them up a narrow staircase.

 

The staircase is odd, built without much forethought, and there's an office crowded on the landing after there’s a bedroom, before the steps continue upwards and into a wide hall that ends in a large living area, the sound of talking rather muted and calm.

 

"It sounds like something we need to do, but we don't know where either of them are."

 

That's Tifa. It pains him that he can remember that voice, even from the echo of the tone warped in pain. The night she  screamed . The night she grabbed that katana and attempted to use it against him.

 

"It doesn't matter. We have to end this... Before it gets out of hand."

 

Cloud.

 

He knows that voice anywhere. But it’s tired, worn, as if speaking of a battle is just as tiring as fighting it. It stops him in his tracks, for a moment, but when Aerith turns to him in question, he quickly covers his falter.

 

Vincent enters the mouth of the room and is swallowed into soft light from table lamps. Aerith hesitates for only a moment before she follows, and the hush that fills the room is almost deafening.

 

From where he stands, melting into the shadow of the hall, Sephiroth can see her migrate to the left of the room, and he hears the squeak of old couch cushions as someone stands.

 

There's a heavy inhale.

 

And then there's a sob.

 

Sephiroth feels as if he's intruding on something private as the sobs enunciate half-sentences, "you died"s, and "I'm so sorry"s. Aerith moves out of his line of sight and he watches a raven haired woman in what he assumes are pajamas move to hug Aerith so tight that it’s no wonder he doesn’t hear her ribs crack.

 

Vincent clears his throat, and Aerith speaks.

 

"I came to help, but... I knew we would need someone stronger."

 

Barrett scoffs a laugh. Someone is still stifling sobs. Aerith takes a breath and Vincent's gloved hand hovers over his holstered gun.

 

"Cloud, I know you're not going to like it, but you have to trust me. Okay?"

 

"Aerith, what...? What is that supposed to mean?"

 

"Just trust me. Please, Cloud."

 

Vincent looks over his shoulder, as if to supply a cue, and Sephiroth steps into the room.

 

At first, there is no reaction. The only one that seems to even notice him is Cloud, who looks over Aerith's shoulder, startled, but calm. His eyes widen for a moment before he blinks and returns to normal, slowly looking back to the Cetra before him.

 

It is the face of a man that has seen so many figments of his own mind that he no longer trusts his eyes.

 

But then Tifa follows his line of sight.

 

Her reaction is  violent . 

 

She grabs Aerith and shoves her behind her, providing herself as a shield. She isn't exactly intimidating, her hair spilled free as she stands there in nothing but a sports bra and a pair of gingham pajama shorts, but the look on her face is easily enough to kill. And the muscles so clearly defined… It does paint an odd picture, how slight Aerith seems behind her.

 

But it’s then, only then, Cloud Strife realizes this is not a dream.

 

Barrett hardly has time for his own reaction before Cloud is moving (he's also in pajamas- just a T-shirt and loose black sweats and deadly shadows under his eyes) and he shoves Cid off to the side when he half-heartedly attempts to stop him. Vincent wraps his fingers around his gun, but he does not draw it just yet.

 

Sephiroth does not move.

 

But when the blond is upon him, grabbing a lamp off the table as a weapon, something inside of him clicks.

 

Instinct .

 

Just as Cloud brings the lamp around, Sephiroth dodges, though he grabs the shade and rips it from the bulb. The glass breaks with the force and someone (Yuffie) screams when the light in the room is out.

 

But they can still see each other, mako eyes growing bright from the weak light of the only remaining, flickering lamp.

 

Sephiroth chooses to retreat back into the hall, away from the crowd of people. Cloud follows, discarding the sparking lamp and ducking into one of the rooms, Aerith calling after him. Sephiroth eases one foot down to the stairs as he hears Cloud knocking around in the room before bursting out.

 

He emerges with a sword.

 

"Cloud!"

 

He charges, horror and fear and anger creating a mask on his face that is truly  terrifying as he attempts to fight in the sparse room of the hall, Sephiroth dodging before his gloved hand comes down, grasping the flat of his blade and twisting it to disarm him-

 

The sword clatters to the ground, but before Sephiroth can reach for it, there is a woman between them.

 

"Cloud, stop!"

 

Someone flips the light switch to the hall, bathing them in harsh fluorescents. Everyone is crowded around the entrance to the hall, gawking. Tifa has her hands over her mouth and Cid has a restraining hand on Barret’s arm.

 

Aerith stands between them, her hands pushing against Cloud's chest. "Stop it! He's with us! He's here to help!"

 

"He killed you--"

 

"And I brought him back!" She retorts, her tiny body misleading the size of her voice.

 

Cloud does not look any calmer.  "Why? " He is still pressing against her hands, though he clearly doesn't want to harm her by pushing away completely. "Why did you bring  him? "

 

"It wasn't him that did all that! He didn’t kill me!"

 

"How can you say that?!"

 

"It was JENOVA!"

 

"It was  him !"

 

"Cloud." It's Vincent that speaks this time, his gauntlet of a hand resting on Cloud's shoulder. "She's telling the truth. He hasn't tried to bring any of us any harm."

 

"I even punched him in the face!" is Yuffie's contribution to this.

 

Cloud looks far from convinced.

 

"Please," Aerith pleads, gently pushing him back until he relents. "Let's just... Let's all just sit down for a minute."

 

The air is practically burning between the two, Sephiroth having shaken whatever reflex to fight that he had and simply standing, using the same posture as when Vincent had been passing his own judgment.

 

They're like feral dogs, on the border of each other's territories, just waiting for an excuse to attack. Aerith is practically invisible between them, and the longer Sephiroth locks eyes with the blond, the more guilt he feels. Guilt, churning like acid, so unfamiliar in his gut…

 

He remembers a grunt, sitting with them on the venture to Nibelhiem, telling Zack about his family and his home town in an effort to ignore his motion sickness.

 

He remembers the look of awe on the rounded face of a boy just past 16, staring up at the general as the locals take photos for their paper.

 

He remembers entering the reactor.

 

He remembers stabbing that young boy clean through, and the raw willpower in his too-human eyes as he pulls himself along blood-slicked metal.

 

He remembers defeat.

 

He remembers  anger .

 

Something rushes him and the dim lighting of the hall vanishes completely, along with the sounds of Aerith  pleading them to stop. All he hears is the rush of his blood in his veins and the sharp inhales of his breath and he’s cold and--

 

Kill him .

 

His body is moving, he can  feel it, but he cannot see, and his mind is entering a state of numb panic. He is blind, he is holding something wrapped in leather, there is a scream--

 

Killhimkillhimkillhimkillhimkillhim--

 

He tastes  bile and yet he still cannot see, head nearly  splitting with pain as his muscles tense and move without his permission. He is a nameless puppet, he is nothing, he is alone, he is cold, he is in the dark--

 

Sephiroth!

 

Is that his name? Is that who he is? Why? Where is he? Why? Who is he?  Why?

 

“Sephiroth!”

 

Pain lances itself across his face and he can  see and he’s staring into violent green eyes, wide with panic, and there’s a man on the floor with a woman kneeling beside him.

 

“ Not gonna hurt us , my ass!” Barret yells, and it’s only then that Sephiroth notices he’s holding Masamune.

 

He drops it as if it burns and it vanishes in a wisp of toxic smoke, and Aerith’s hands drop from his face, exhausted.

 

“Come sit down.”

 

If the air had been tense before, it is now  electric , stinging and burning as everyone awkwardly shuffles into the small living area in accordance with Aerith’s sharp order. Red XIII is seated beside an old TV, Vincent reclining against the wall beside him. Yuffie plops criss-cross on the floor in front of the rocking chair that Aerith carefully lowers herself into, leaning back against the Cetra’s legs for support. Tifa and Barret opt for the couch with Cid awkwardly perched on the armrest at Barret’s elbow, squishing a  murderous looking Cloud between them. Together, they look ready to take on an army, pajamas be damned.

 

Sephiroth sits in an easy chair, his head still roaring and the world tilting awkwardly on its axis before he quite literally  falls into the cushion.

 

There is a beat of silence. The calm before a storm.

 

A door creaks open in the hall, down on the landing, and there’s the soft voice of a child.

 

“Cloud… Tifa? What’s going on…?”

 

Something within Tifa shifts and she’s instantly on her feet, running to the two small children that have converged in the entryway, eyes wide as they take in the sight.

 

A little girl, clad in a pale pink night dress with her hair in a braid, rockets towards the rocker and leaps  clear over Yuffie, crawling onto Aerith’s lap and hugging her neck tight enough that it’s a wonder that she doesn’t asphyxiate her.

 

The boy, on the other hand...

 

The boy is staring at Sephiroth as if he’s looking his own nightmares in the face.

 

Tifa has one hand on the boy’s shoulder as Cloud pushes to his feet, grabbing the girl off of Aerith’s lap despite her cry of resistance. Tifa looks alarmed as he man-handles the girl back down the hall, the other hand grabbing at the boy’s back and pushing them back into their room. Tifa’s hands awkwardly fold into fists at her sides as she stiffly returns to the couch, and everyone pretends they don’t hear Cloud shout at them to stay put and be ready to run.

 

When he returns, he’s carrying his piece of the Fusion sword with him.

 

“Cloud,” Aerith breathes, and it sounds like a plea, a whisper, to get to him.

 

But he no longer looks like a dog about to attack. His hair is already up on his haunches, he’s already growling. Whatever chance they had at making an alliance has been thoroughly shattered by a break in his psyche and a ghost imitation of Masamune and the monster within himself.

 

And yet, Sephiroth notices none of this.

 

He is too busy staring at the creased leather of his gloves, his open palms. His skin is white and pale, thin blue lines leading his blood through his body and vanishing under the dark leather. His head aches, though the throbbing reminds him of a large bell being rung inside of a metal ball-- Echoing, bouncing,  pulsing . His fingers tremble, and his mind is struggling to get through the pain and confusion to  figure this out .

 

Was it really that easy for Jenova to regain her hold on him? A simple memory, a spark of anger, and he had not been conscious of anything he had been doing. But now, he knows the details. He had kicked out at Cloud, raised his sword, and Aerith had grabbed his face and screamed at him to  bring him back to earth.

 

The exercise aboard the Highwind, sitting across from Aerith at a folding table, feels like child’s play now. What use had that been, if Jenova can take control without a single struggle?

 

He needs to leave.

 

“Cloud,” Aerith breathes again, and Sephiroth snaps back to the present. Cloud has not seated himself, knuckles white-tight on the hilt of a Fusion fragment. His eyes are sharp on Sephiroth, even as the man stands and silently takes his exit.

 

He hears heavy footfalls as Cloud begins to follow him, though he does not run. He simply walks down the stairs and into the kitchen, grabbing the black shroud of a cape and pulling it around himself.

 

“Why are you here?” Cloud snaps, guarding the only exit. “What the hell are you doing?”

 

Sephiroth frowns, tying the cape around his neck before pulling up the hood and shoving his hair into it. “I don’t understand your question.”

 

“Don’t play stupid with me, Sephiroth.”

 

He exhales sharply, attempting to make his body language appear  peaceful . His spine remains straight, but he relaxes the tension in his arms and schools his expression into a passive one. “Why don’t you ask that of your flower girl? She’s the mind behind all of this, and she’ll have your answers. For now, I’m taking my leave.”

 

“Where are you going? I can’t let you leave,” he snaps, raising his sword as Sephiroth takes a step towards him.

 

His hands raise, showing his gloved palms in a sign of surrender. “I don’t know.”

 

Cloud’s eyes harden and his muscles tighten to attack.

 

Sephiroth keeps his hands up. “I don’t want to fight you. Upstairs--  She  regained control. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be at odds. The second I felt anger, she--”

 

“You keep blaming JENOVA, but she’s been around for two thousand years. You’re the only one that’s tried to kill the entire  planet .”

 

“Because I--”

 

“You killed my friends, my  family . You burnt down my _hometown!_ Do you have any idea how many thousands of people are dead, homeless,  orphaned because of you? You’re a monster, and you’re always going to be.”

 

“I did not ask to be a monster.”

 

“No, you didn’t,” he grits out, and Sephiroth watches his feet slide into position for an ambush. “You  made  yourself into one.”

 

Sephiroth’s hands drop, and he feels his face tighten with  displeasure . He snuffs out the spark of anger in his gut out of  fear , though the blond’s words begin to eat him from the inside out.

 

“If you truly think that, I invite you to kill me here. I did not ask to be resurrected. You’re welcome to end me and return me to wherever Aerith pulled me from.”

 

Suspicion is plain as day on the man’s face, his stance faltering at the invitation. Sephiroth keeps still, arms opening to make himself more vulnerable. There is not a hint of a bluff in his eyes, and Cloud hesitates for a moment longer before he steps closer, well within sword range.

 

Sephiroth closes his eyes.

 

When he opens them, he is standing in a field of yellow lilies.

 

“Sephiroth,  please \--”

 

He remembers the anger, the disgust, the  fear that had ripped him away from the vision of Hojo’s lab, and the field shatters to his feet as he pushes it  away .

 

He exists in the black darkness of  nothing .

 

 

* * *

 

 

There’s an awkward sort of tension as the two men walk away from the crowd of footsoldiers, one of them trailing on his third straight cigarette and the other polishing the lens of his sunglasses on the tail of his suit.

 

“You  know I believe ya, partner,” the smoking one drawls, kicking at a rock and sending a plume of dusty earth into the air. “But if Sephiroth was in that damn airship, every one of us’d be dead right now.”

 

Sunglasses replaced, Rude frowns, following his partner as he leans heavily against a rock outcropping. His eyes dart to a point not too far off, and both of them hesitate on a date so many years ago before Reno breaks the silence.

 

“Somethin’s fucked.”

 

“Everything’s fucked,” is Rude’s monotonous reply, earning a sharp, bitter laugh as Reno stamps his cigarette into the dirt. “I know what I saw, but you’re right. Maybe it wasn’t him.”

 

“Another remnant?” he prompts, fishing out another cigarette. Chain smoking. Helps with the anxiety. It’s a surprise he hasn’t gotten lung cancer, in this kind of work. “We never found the bodies…”

 

“Cloud said they… dissolved. Kadaj did, at least.”

 

“Yeah, that leaves two to wonder where the hell they are,” he sighs, clicking his dying lighter a few times before the tired metal flicks on. “Maybe we’re just paranoid.” His voice is softer, head tilting back as he watches the smoke trail from his mouth and up to the smog-tainted sky. “Been through alot o’ shit, yo. Me, you, Elena, Tseng… Everyone. The second we see somethin’ suspicious, we’re jumpin’ back on the Sephiroth train.”

 

They’re silent for a moment, contemplating. ShinRa trucks full of reinforcements are being shipped off, leaving the chopper and the president’s personal car. Rude bums a cigarette and they’re both smoking and  thinking as they’re approached, Tseng looking pale in the scattered moonlight.

 

“Do you want the bad news or the good news?” he asks tiredly, snatching the fag from Reno’s fingers to take a drag himself, ignorant at the glare being shot at him.

 

“Bad,” Rude answers, slapping away Reno’s hand when he moves to steal it back. “What happened?”

 

“No sign of Sephiroth,” he answers duly, flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding his shoe over it, smoke trailing from his mouth as he speaks. “No sign of anyone, actually. It looks like the Highwind took off one day for no apparent reason. They don’t even have enough food to last if they were going on an expedition.”

 

Reno arches a brow, shaking the last cigarette from its box and holding it between his lips, unlit. “So what does that mean?”

 

Tseng gives him a long look, then flicks his eyes over to where the behemoth of a ship is resting. “It means that something’s happened.”

 

“Yeah, that makes sense,” he mutters sarcastically, lighting up and gesturing at the ship with his lighter. “Maybe they’re havin’ a reunion.”

 

The joke doesn’t get laughter, but a look of muted irritation and a flash in Tseng’s eyes of  fury at the inappropriateness.

 

“Why wouldn’t they have driven, then? Parked the ship somewhere else and taken a truck. They have one in the back of their cargo hold. What would be so urgent that they tried to land the ship in the middle of Edge?”

 

He waves his hand dismissively, shoving the lighter in his pocket. “I’m guessin’ that the answer is the good news?”

 

Tseng nods, turning to Rude. “It’s very possible that you  did see Sephiroth and the Cetra. Such an event would lead them to immediately reform their group.”

 

Rude seems surprised, though there’s relief in his voice when he speaks. “But you didn’t find them.”

 

“Correct. We did catch sight of someone leaving the area shortly after we began searching, but they were so far off when we spotted them that the soldiers didn’t think of it importance. Sephiroth doesn’t have a history of running, but Aerith  does , and so it might be a good idea to take a look into where those two went. Our best bet is, of course, Seventh Heaven. Barrett Wallace is in town, as is Cloud. It’s the perfect start to reform their team.” He sighs, folding his arms behind his back. He stays like that, oddly  stiff , before he grins.

 

“Gentlemen, we’re going to perform a stakeout.”

 

Reno  grins \-- Finally, something other than paperwork and sniffing out hunches. But Rude, as usual, is the voice of reason.

 

“Why would Sephiroth and Aerith be working together?”

 

Tseng shrugs, turning to head back to the sleek black car that Rufus has traded for the chopper. Elena waves to them before the chopper leaves, Tseng fishing the keys from his pocket. “Sephiroth used to be a man of honor. Perhaps, with the destruction of the remnants and JENOVA’s head, he’s come back to his senses to seek forgiveness.”

 

Reno laughs.

 

“You come up with a better assumption,” Tseng scolds, unlocking the car and climbing into the passenger seat. “Either way, we’re going to find out for certain when we reach Seventh Heaven.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Cloud…”

 

Aerith’s voice is soft,  scared , as Cloud returns to the living area, setting his sword up against the wall. He doesn’t look to her, instead turning to Tifa, who has yet to regain her color. They have a silent agreement in those looks, and Tifa’s hand reaches to thread her fingers with Cloud’s.

 

He then turns to Vincent to direct his questioning.

 

“What’s going on, Vincent?”

 

Vincent is silent, gesturing for everyone to resume their seats. They do, and it’s a tense affair, but he does not speak until it is done.

 

“Aerith has gained enough power to give herself a physically form. A way of… resurrecting herself.” He turns to Aerith for clarification and she nods, though she’s watching Cloud like a hawk. A very  worried hawk.

 

“After the remnants and JENOVA’s head were destroyed, Sephiroth’s subconscious was clear. She cleansed him of JENOVA’s influence, and was able to bring him back to the physical world. What happened earlier… I imagine that was a moment of weakness where she regained control. Likely triggered by the way you attacked him.”

 

Cloud scowls. “He was never a good man in the first place. Why did you bring him back?”

 

“To kill J--”

 

Aerith’s eyes widen, and she gasps, cutting Vincent off abruptly. “Cloud, where is he? I can’t tap into his mind, he’s  gone \--”

 

The doorbell, a tinny, old sound, echoes through the building and Tifa grows even  paler . Cloud does not react.

 

“To kill who?” Cloud interrupts, though he already knows the answer from Vincent’s earlier explanation.

 

Aerith speaks up, voice quiet. “To kill JENOVA… he’s the only one that can.”

 

The doorbell rings again, dragging on as the button is held.

 

“Check who it is,” Cloud mutters, gently nudging Tifa to stand. She takes a breath to regain herself and begins to leave, though Aerith follows as Cloud continues to demand answers from Vincent.

 

Tifa flicks on lights as she goes, ensuring that, whoever it is, she’ll be able to  see . She ducks into the bathroom to grab a robe, wrapping the dark material around herself for more modesty. Aerith is right at her elbow, a hand on her shoulder as Tifa leads them downstairs and opens the back door into the alley.

 

“That’s one ya got right, Rude! Lookit that.”

 

Aerith immediately ducks behind Tifa, though it’s too late. The turks have seen her, and it’s with an eerily  polite nod that Tseng invites himself in, Reno and Rude tailing after him.

 

“Where’s Sephiroth?” Tseng asks, as soon as the door closes behind them. Reno and Rude begin to look around, Rude’s hand on an unsheathed gun and Reno twirling his EMR by the hand strap.

 

Tifa only responds with a glare, voice coated in venom. “Get out.”

 

“Hostility only makes you look guilty.”

 

Her glare hardens. “This is private property, after close. You’ll need a warrant.”

 

Aerith peeks out from behind her, matching her glare. “Why would Sephiroth be here?”

 

He turns to her, hands folded professionally behind his back. “Two people were spotted running to Edge. Not one.”

 

Aerith opens her mouth to fabricate to lie, to get them  out , but Reno pops back in from the kitchen with their bag. He drops it on the floor with a dull  thud and pulls something out, raising a brow at his small audience.

 

Sephiroth’s leathers un-roll, pooling at the wooden floor.

 

Tseng turns back to the women. “I would have never guessed either of you would  harbor him, after all he’s done to you…”

 

Tifa  snarls,  shoving the flat of her palm against Tseng’s shoulder, forcing him back towards the door. “He’s not here, so get  out ! And when you  do find him, kill him!”

 

“What we do with him is up to our discretion. However…” He turns to look at Aerith again, currently clinging to Tifa’s arm and glaring daggers at the turks. Reno’s preoccupied with looking through the bag, and Rude is standing by the stairs, waiting.

 

“I am rather intrigued that the flower can regrow from a clipped stem.”

 

Tifa’s reaction is immediate, to step in front of Aerith and shove Tseng back again, hands curling into fists. “Get out, or you’ll be limping later,” she snarls, one arm back to keep Aerith behind her.

 

Tseng holds his hands up in defense, now backed against the door completely. “I don’t intend to cause a scene. We’re still allies, for the moment, and Aerith holds many answers that can help everyone.”

 

But Aerith already has an idea. If they can get into ShinRa, if they can find Hojo, they can find JENOVA… And surely one night will give them enough time to find out where Sephiroth has gone. Perhaps if she lets herself be taken, she’ll be able to gain information on how to move forward with their skeleton plan.

 

“No, Tifa, it’s alright…”

 

Even Tseng looks shocked, but Aerith does not come out from behind her shield.

 

“I… have a lot of questions. About what’s going on, and what ShinRa has to do with all of this… I’d like a meeting with the president, if that’s possible…”

 

Tseng looks almost at a loss, having  clearly not expected such willing agreement to returning to ShinRa’s hand. But he clears his throat, regaining his composure. “Very well. We’ll arrive shortly after dawn to take you to him.” He cocks his head at the other men, a slight nod to get their attention. “If Sephiroth was here, he would have attacked by now. We’ll comb the city.”

 

The women stand in silence, Tifa  radiating hate as they leave. She locks the deadbolt after them,

spinning around to grab Aerith by the shoulders.

 

“What are you thinking?! We just got you back-- We  can’t lose you again, Aerith--”

 

“I have an idea,” she soothes gently, taking Tifa’s hands in hers. “Trust me. I need to run it by the others, so I'll tell you then… Let’s go back upstairs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now let's hope it won't take me 50 more years for the next part.
> 
> (I've already got most of it written, but it's a matter of beating the shit out of my sinusitis.)
> 
> Also, look forward to finally dipping your toes in the warm water of AeriSeph next chapter!


	7. DEAL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So since the camping season at the park is over, I've got so much time to write this at the office. Hopefully chapters will be faster! And I seriously can't say enough thanks to all the reviewers!
> 
> This chapter is also the reason for the gore warning. **THE GORE STARTS AT 'XXX' AND ENDS AT "ZZZ"**. If you need to skip it, you're not missing much. Take care of yourself!
> 
> Also in this chapter: Marlene steals Sephiroth's orange juice, Cid finds more holes in his ship, and Aerith sees Sephiroth's dick on accident. Fun times.

  
Aerith’s plan does not go over well.

She intends to meet with Rufus, and from there, get answers as to Jenova and Hojo’s locations. To start moving forward then, to relocate Sephiroth and head out to carry on their mission.

This plan, however, hinges on the fact that Rufus both knows this information and will be open to disclosing it.

“He won’t tell you,” Cloud is quick to argue, having stood when the women entered and paced when Aerith explained her thoughts. “He wouldn’t even tell us what Kadaj and the others were up to before it was too late. There’s no way.”

“He might,” Vincent ventures, eying Aerith as she stands, hands on her stomach, Tifa at her side. “Shinra has been interested in her for a very long time. Perhaps she has the leverage--”

Cloud rounds on him, but rather than anger, it is with fear. “Don’t say she should go back--!”

“She shouldn’t,” he clarifies, apparently unbothered with the way Cloud had lunged towards him. “But if Rufus can lie, then so can she.”

“She is pretty good at poker,” Cid pipes up, attempting to lighten the mood. “So, what, she goes in and makes some kinda deal? Hojo and Jenova’s locations in exchange for gettin’ their hands back on her? No way he'll tell her 'bout Jenova, but maybe Hojo.”

She must admit, she’s not liking that option.

“Except she won’t hand herself over,” Vincent amends, giving her a nod to put her at ease. “The Turks already apparently trust her enough to stay here until morning, so who’s to say they won’t take her word if she has to step outside and relay the information?”

“I’m going with her,” Cloud decides abruptly, eyes wide and focused. He is not going to let her out of his sight again. He won’t be responsible again. “Once she makes that deal, there’s no way they’ll let her walk around alone.”

“And you think they’ll let you come with her?”

His eyes harden. “They’re going to have to. Whatever Rufus has to say, he can say it to me.”

“He owes us that much,” Tifa sighs, a hand worrying up her arm, as if rubbing down a chill. “After the Stigma…”

“There’s your leverage,” Barret pipes up. “It was you that cured it-- What with Great Gospel and all.”

She frowns. “So you’re saying… I should threaten him? That I'll bring the Stigma back?”

“Gaia knows he’s threatened us enough damn times,” Cid mutters, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. “I say we just storm the place and force it outta him.”

“That wouldn’t work.”

“Yeah, but it’d make me feel better.”

As the discussion turns more into bickering, Aerith slips away. She whispers an excuse of wanting a shower so she can gather her thoughts to Tifa, to which the woman agrees to find some clothes to her, before she heads to the bathroom in the hall.

Tifa brings her a towel and a folded set of pajamas, rolling her eyes as the argument in the living area turns from Shinra to who can lie the easiest to Yuffie being surprisingly (and frighteningly) the best.

Aerith does not shower.

Though she runs the water so it will seem like she’s cleaning, sitting on the edge of the tub and closing her eyes. She knows Sephiroth isn’t gone-- He’s gone back to the planes of the Lifestream, and if she can focus enough… She might be able to find him.

At the very least, a discussion needs to be had.

* * *

 

xxx

There is a certain peace that blankets the soul when sleep takes over. A peace that makes fingertips and toes tingle with the lack of stimulus, the brain sending out waves of white noise as eyeballs rest in their heavy sockets. Dreams would break through, clips and fragments like blips on a scanning radio. Images played on the mind’s screen, reminding the slumbering soul of things they had left behind, or things they desire.

That peace is not here.

This place is nothing but blackness, nothing but pain lancing through his skull. It feels as if he’s underwater, at the mercy of fish chewing and pulling his hair and his skin from his bone, the pressure of the ocean pressing down on him--

He sees a woman with brown hair in his mind’s eye. She doesn’t speak, but the expression on her face says more than words could. It is drawn taut with sorrow, with pain, and while there are no tears, she seems only moments from shedding them.

The yellow ribbon in her hair turns to pink.

A white lab coat is a pink dress.

A pink dress is covered in blood.

**_Kill her._ **

He is behind her, his sword through her back as she collapses. The pink ribbon unravels, falls, turns yellow again, and Lucrecia screams.

**_Kill them all._ **

The blackness opens its maw like a beast and he’s standing in the destroyed remains of Midgar. There are bodies all around, covered in blood, the same that is dripping from Masamune and his hands.

He knows these bodies.

Aerith, Lucrecia are both with abdomen wounds, Hojo missing half his head, Turks dismembered, Cloud beheaded, Vincent torn apart like an animal carcass, Red XIII with a slit throat and blood-matted fur, Yuffie with her eyes gouged out, Tifa’s chest split open to her ribs, Barret’s arms torn and bullets in his head, Cid’s abdomen split open and spilling onto the dust--

He turns his head and vomits, falling to his knees amidst the gore.

**_It’s what they deserve._ **

He looks up into Lucrecia’s eyes, glazed and clouded and dead. The stench of blood and gore is so strong that he almost vomits again, dropping Masamune to the ground with disgust. Though the leather sticks for a moment, blood having dried on the hilt.

Lucrecia’s mouth opens, jaw detached, and a tear runs down her dirty cheek.

“Sephiroth…”

**_Killthemkillthemkillthemkillthem--_ **

He shuts his eyes, blocks it out. He can still smell the horror around him, hear that voice hissing a mantra of kill them until it turns into white noise.

And he screams.

He opens his eyes.

He is in a field of pastel lilies, where the sun is invisible and the green bleeds into blue. Wind disturbs some of the blossoms and taller blades of grass, though it does not touch him.

But he still smells the gore. It’s still sticking to him, clumping in his hair and cracking on his gloves. He can hear the echoes of Lucrecia’s voice pleading for him, the sound of his own bile slapping onto the debris. The sound of flies eating the remnants of those who had offered to help, spawning maggots and rot… A rot that  _he_ had caused, gore that he had torn apart with his own hands.

zzz

He stares up at the sky, so blue and pure, and he cries.

An ugly sob tears up from his throat and tears rush down his face, salty and hot where they pool against his collar. His body is tortured with pain, with visions of blood and carnage and _greed_ , and he can’t take it.

He is a monster, and he will never be more than that. Perhaps as a child, a younger general, he wasn’t as… _evil_. Perhaps his tipping point had come after sleepless days of being locked in the Shinra mansion, searching through old research files and reports. When he realized his purpose, his beginnings, and the reasons for so many things…

When he realized that Mako makes monsters, but Jenova was the biggest monster of them all… So what had that made _him_?

He had burnt down Nibelheim. He had slaughtered the citizens there in cold blood, without care. He had been thrown into a Mako reactor, and for what? Was he just so angry that he had been lied to for so many years? So angry that he wanted to burn down the world, destroy the humanity that had cruelly given spawn to him? To share his misery and fury with anyone that dared to cross his path?

Or was he trying to _make_ himself into a monster, so he might be able to accept the title more easily?

Genesis had come to him, in that moment of weakness. He had reminded Sephiroth of his monstrosity, his cruel perfection. To mock him, to push him...

What he would have given, in that moment, to have a _true_ friend to turn to.

Yet he is alone. Abandoned. Fitting, for a monster.

His head hurts, his throat dry, his entire state a complete mess. He dares to push himself to his feet, though he simply falls again, onto hands and knees. His fingers dig into the dirt, uprooting grass and flowers as he tries to find a place to root _himself_.

“Sephiroth…”

He’s crying like a child, heavy sobs and suffocating gasps escaping him as he watches his tears fall with an odd fascination. He hasn’t cried since he was a child, younger than five. He learned quickly to mute his emotions, to continue as stoic.

He is not a child. He is a monster.

And he is _alone_.

“You’re scared.”

Brown boots enter his vision, and soon the hem of a pink dress, as Aerith crouches before him. The stench of blood has faded, pushed out by the sweet scent of pollen and earth, though he still feels sick.

“You’re scared, because you know now. You know what you’ve done, but you don’t know why.”

Bile raises, but he only coughs out a sob.

“You took Cloud’s parents from him. You did the same to Tifa. You’ve ruined so many families, because you were never able to have one of your own. Can you blame them for being afraid? For being angry? Just like you are, at the world...”

He’s never had a family. Lucrecia, dead. Hojo… was never even a _father_ in the first place. And Jenova…

He doesn’t know who (or what) to blame anymore.

“You were so happy when you found Jenova, weren’t you? You thought… you would have a family, then. That she would give you love that mothers are supposed to give to their children. But she didn’t give that to you, did she? She took advantage of you, when all you wanted was to be loved, to be held, but…”

He can feel her next words coming, hands digging deeper into the dirt as if he can dig away from them. As if the warmth he finds beneath the soil will somehow purify him. To erase himself and be renewed. A bud damaged before it even had the chance to blossom that will only wilt and die without gentle care.

“She made you into a puppet.”

He is _nothing_ without Jenova.

“You are a _man_ , without her.”

And those arms, so thin and fragile but tanned from the sun wrap over him, her forehead resting on his shoulder.

“Please, come back… I know you’re strong. You’re brave. You can beat her and become the man you were never allowed to be… And I’ll help you. We all will. I know Cloud might take a while to come around, but please… I believe in you.”

“I killed you-”

“You only did as Jenova _forced_ you to. You’re no guiltier than Cloud.”

He lifts his head at that, tears still catching in his eyelashes as he looks to her in confusion. She sits back on her ankles, her hands sliding from his back to her lap. They twitch before her fingers clasp tight to each other, as if she would rather have them over her abdomen for protection.

He feels cold, without her touch.

“Cloud… attacked me. Jenova tried to use him to kill me, before you. She used him to give you the Black Materia, to compromise us…”

And then she smiles, a soft, caring thing that makes a sob seize in his throat.

“But if I can forgive him, I can forgive you too. You just need to work on getting better. On being _good_.”

“How…?”

“You’re smart. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

She stands, and he sits back on his heels as she brushes dirt from her dress. She offers him a hand and a smile, though he sees a bit of worry in those vibrant eyes. The storm still swirling.

“Come on. We have things to do.”

He takes her hand, and the pain dissipates.

When he opens his eyes, though he cannot remember when he closed them, he is standing with Aerith in an off-yellow bathroom, undecorated but warm nonetheless.

He doesn’t have to ask. He knows he’s back at Seventh Heaven.

Aerith sighs, looking exhausted, still dressed in her poor excuse of a disguise. She drops his hand, though she glances down to look at the black mass of ink on the back of it. It isn’t until her eyes widen and she turns away with burning cheeks that Sephiroth realizes he’s _naked_.

“G-go ahead and shower… I’ll go tell the others you’re back,” she stammers, gesturing to the towel Tifa had brought her to let Sephiroth know he can use it before she skitters out.

He locks the door behind her, and stares blankly at the grain of the wood.

His ears are ringing. He still feels nauseous. His mind is fogged with the confusion over his own being, and yet…

He showers, and he isn’t as meticulous as he usually is, though he finds himself scrubbing at the ink on the back of his hand until it stings. He washes with unfamiliar soaps, smelling of pine and a chemically manufactured musk as he towels off and realizes that the only change of clothes he’s been given are a women’s. Likely Tifa’s, for Aerith to borrow.

Before he can wrap the towel around his waist and make an awkward encounter, there’s a meek knock at the door, and he unlocks it to see Aerith looking away and holding a folded pile of black leathers.

He sees the dust and dried blood, though he doesn’t hesitate when he takes them.

“...Thank you.”

Aerith seems shocked at his thanks, breaking her contact with the wall to look at him, obviously mindful to keep her eyes on his face.

But they drop down, just a hair, and there’s a barely-there gasp.

On his side is the sole reminder that Sephiroth is human. Apparently the reminder she hadn't noticed earlier.

It’s a scar from the Buster Sword, from that day in the reactor, mottled and pale against his already-porcelain skin. It looks like it could have cut him in half, poorly yet quickly mended. And Aerith is staring at it, in shock, as if she never thought he could ever be harmed. As if looking upon an angel with a single, broken wing...

He closes the door to get dressed.

He spends longer than necessary getting dressed, allowing his fingers to trace the twisted scar before he pulls on his jacket, fastening enough buckles to hide the mark. And perhaps it’s anxiety, that he doesn’t want to step out of the steamed bathroom to face what awaits him, but when there’s an impatient knock and a huff of “hurry up!” from Yuffie, he takes a breath and exits.

Cloud and Tifa have gone to bed already, though by the way Barret says it makes it sound like they aren’t about to get any sleep with Sephiroth under their roof. They briefly arrange bedrooms, dividing couches by sleeping bodies. Red XIII moves to sleep in the kids’ room with Yuffie, both on the floor, while Cid and Barret go into the guest room when Yuffie bitterly reminds them that they snore _far_ too loud to share with anyone else.

Which leaves Aerith, Sephiroth, and Vincent to the couches in the small family room.

Which means that Aerith sleeps curled up like a cat on the couch while Vincent sits with his head on his fist in the recliner and Sephiroth stands by the window.

“Aerith said you’re able to travel through planes.”

Vincent’s voice is soft, in consideration for the sleeping cetra. Though his _eyes_ are far from gentle, piercing into Sephiroth from his seemingly relaxed position in the cushioned recliner.

Sephiroth replies only with a sigh for a moment, running a gloved hand over his face. “...Is that so?”

“She said it’s likely because you were in distress of Jenova taking over, and you fought back against her.”

He shrugs.

Vincent exhales, lowering his hand to rest his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. “You look ill.”

A huff of a breath is given, almost a laugh. Sephiroth turns to him, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. Defensive.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Are you honestly concerned?”

Vincent pauses a moment, glancing to Aerith’s sleeping form, watching her breath rise and fall beneath a warm quilt that’s been loaned to her. She looks exhausted even in rest, lips in a thin line as her eyes dart restlessly in dreams. And then he turns those eyes back to Sephiroth, bare and  _honest._

“Yes.”

Sephiroth doesn’t know how to respond.

He sits at the end of the couch by Aerith’s feet and manages a few hours of sleep while Vincent watches him to ensure that he really is _fine_.

Vincent also serves as their alarm clock, waking everyone when the view outside is obscured with fog, a pale gray as the sun struggles to rise. Everyone dresses for combat and meets down in the kitchen as Aerith and Tifa make breakfast with Cid’s help. Sephiroth is insisted to sit beside Yuffie at one of the tables, and he counts the scratches on the table to avoid meeting the suspicious stare Cloud won’t drop from him.

(When Cloud is demanded to help in the kitchen by Aerith, however, Sephiroth catches the ghost of a smile on his lips when he looks upon the cetra.)

“So did Aerith tell you the plan?” Yuffie interrupts, plopping back down to her seat with a glass of orange juice for herself and another for Sephiroth. “You look like you didn’t sleep at all last night. You worried?”

He simply blinks at her, not touching the juice. “Plan?”

“Great, she insisted on muscle, but he ain’t got a damn clue what he’s supposed to do,” Barret mutters, stealing the glass and sliding it to Marlene, who chirps a polite thanks and sips.

Vincent, always the mediator, speaks up. “There isn’t much to the plan. Aerith is going to meet with Rufus Shinra, and Cloud is going with her, just in case. The rest of us will be in the Highwind, ready to leave as soon as we get a location. We’ll also be in contact with the WRO to relay the information, to have Reeve and his soldiers set a perimeter before we get there.”

Yuffie looks a little green at the idea of _staying_ in the airship.

“I spoke with Reeve before I woke you,” Vincent pipes up, before a confused Barret can interrupt. “He and his soldiers agreed unanimously. We need to eliminate the Jenova threat at the source.”

“And Hojo,” Sephiroth supplies.

His lips briefly twitch into a grin when Vincent nods in agreement.

“And Hojo.”

“Breakfast is ready!”

Breakfast consists of enough eggs to feed a small army, aptly enough, and a loaf’s worth of toast. There’s also fruit, washed and cut, sausage links, and a kettle of coffee that Cid pours himself a generous amount of. Everyone is silent, for the most part, but even moreso when Tifa places a plate of pancakes down and takes a seat on the other side of Sephiroth.

He looks to her, glass of water halfway to his lips, and she gazes up at him with muted fury on her face.

“I’m far from forgiving or trusting you, but _someone_ unbiased needs to keep an eye on you.”

Vincent raises a brow, not missing the jab.

Yuffie leans forward, to speak with Tifa around Sephiroth as he lowers his glass back to the table. “But after all he’s done, doesn’t that make you biased to hate him?”

Those angry red eyes dart to Yuffie, though she falters for a moment. “How can you trust him so easily, after all he’s done in Wutai? After all he’s done to _us_?”

Yuffie shrugs, looking up at Sephiroth with a moment of curiosity. He meets her gaze expectantly, until she directs it again to Tifa.

“Aerith trusts him, and he hasn’t done anything to hurt us. Like she said, he was under Jenova’s control. Remember how Cloud was? It’s the same, ‘cept Sephiroth didn’t fight back.”

Across the table, Cloud stabs his eggs with far too much force. The sound of his fork squealing and scraping against the plate drags all attention to him, and an annoyed glare from Red XIII where he eats his sausage on the floor.

“Don’t ever compare me to him,” he says through gritted teeth, dropping his fork and rubbing his gloved hand to his forehead. He glares at Sephiroth, and if looks could kill…

“Please,” Aerith pleads softly, looking between Cloud’s fury and Sephiroth’s stunned offense. “Please, Cloud, we need to work with him. I know you don’t like it, but--”

The doorbell rings, and everyone goes still.

“They’re here,” Tifa says quietly, looking to Aerith and Cloud. Aerith seems to be getting cold feet, but Cloud stands, shoving his chair back and swinging the fully formed Fusion Sword onto his back.

“Let’s go, Aerith.”

They leave in a somber silence, and Tifa is quick to start cleaning the table, leaving most of them to shovel food into their mouths before they stand, leaving the pile of dirty dishes as Sephiroth stands awkwardly as the mood shifts to something more _serious_ , in preparation for battle.

When it comes to stuffing everyone in Cid’s truck, however…

It’s a unanimous decision that Sephiroth can’t ride in the bed, can’t be somewhere someone will see him. That also means he can’t sit in the front, so he ends up sandwiched in the back between Yuffie and Vincent with Cid and Barret in the front, Tifa and Red XIII in the bed. The kids are staying at the bar, apparently a familiar arrangement.

(Sephiroth is relieved. He isn’t sure if he can handle the boy’s constant _staring_.)

Cid tries several times to elicit smalltalk, though it can’t quite cut through the tension. He gives up, rolling down his window to smoke as they drive into the wastes where the lumbering airship awaits.

He is furious when he sees what the Turks have done.

Security cameras either disabled or shot out, doors kicked in, bullets lodged in the walls just to make noise. But it still runs, and Yuffie steps outside onto the desk in an attempt to cure her motion sickness as Tifa helps Cid get the Highwind into the air, Vincent leading Sephiroth into the small meeting room to open one of the weapon’s crates.

“I know you’re more familiar with longer swords, but with Cloud being our only swordsman, we don’t have much of a supply,” he says in lieu of apology, grabbing a box of ammo from the packing sawdust, sitting at the table to load and clean his gun.

There really isn’t much of a choice, Sephiroth lifting unbalanced blades and trying to envision himself fighting with them. But they’re bulky, double-bladed, _gaudy_.

“...Why give me a weapon before we land?”

Vincent doesn’t look up, focusing on his task. “I trust you not to slaughter us, but if I’m wrong, keep in mind that everyone on this ship is also armed.”

“So it’s a test of loyalty,” he reasons, picking up the slimmest of the swords, frowning at the short reach. “I can understand that.”

Vincent makes a noise of agreement, pulling a cloth from his back pocket to wipe down his already pristine firearm.

But as Sephiroth weighs the blade, thinks about how much better his Masamune would be, there’s a flash of green that momentarily blinds him, black smoke curling around his hand, and when he comes back, his Masamune is familiar in his hand.

Vincent hasn’t noticed.

His eyes go wide, inspecting the sword to realize, yes, it _is_ real. His head aches again, though he doesn’t hear _her_ , and so he quietly sheathes his sword at his hip.

Vincent looks up at the sound and sees what’s happened. For a moment, he’s speechless, but then his cheeks lift below his cowl in a small smile.

“...I’ll tell them we found it. For now, work with that. Jenova’s powers might be possible to turn against her if you can summon your own weapon.”

Sephiroth nods and takes a seat across from him as the Highwind stutters into the air.

* * *

Rufus Shinra is waiting for them when Reno and Tseng lead them into a temporary office in Healin. Cloud is already familiar with the location, hand hovering towards his sword until Aerith shoots him a look, following black suits into the lodge.

The young president is seated behind a desk when they walk in, a TV muted but running the morning news as sharp blue eyes read captions. He leaves it on as he turns to them, standing and offering a hand to shake that Cloud bristles at.

“No more wheelchair?” he asks dryly, on edge as the Turks stand at attention, flanking behind their president with backs against the wall. Reno scratches his ribs, and Cloud sees the holster of a gun beneath his jacket.

But Rufus smiles politely, letting his hand drop. He looks to Aerith, a fake kindness in his eyes. “Your cetra is quite skilled with that rain of hers.”

Cloud tenses.

But Aerith smiles, hands clasping over her middle. She’s in one of Tifa’s dresses, a pale yellow sundress that is a bit too big on her. Her hair is in its typical braid, a pink ribbon frayed and worn topping it. “I’m glad I could help you, but… we need some help too.”

“So I’ve heard,” he says, so polished and smooth that it makes Cloud’s skin itch. He gestures for them to sit in the plush chairs before his desk, and they do, but not before Rufus resumes his seat. His hands fold on the desk as Cloud removes his sword, though he rests it against his leg. Rufus watches him carefully, cautiously, before he directs his attention back to Aerith. “And what is it you need help with?”

Aerith inhales, glances to Cloud, and answers. “We would like to know Professor Hojo’s location.”

Clearly, this isn’t what Rufus had expected. Even Reno seems surprised, and the only indication that Tseng is taken off-guard is a slight glance towards Cloud’s impassive face.

“Can I ask why?” Rufus recovers, and it’s Cloud that cuts across Aerith before she can speak.

“Because we have some questions for him. He’s still on your payroll, isn’t he?”

Rufus’s jaw tenses, though he keeps the air about him polite and kind. “Considering the recent developments of the past years, we have removed Professor Hojo from our records _and_ from our funding. I, nor anyone else at Shinra, knows his location.”

“Bullshit,” Cloud spits, but Aerith is quick to recover ground back to friendly.

“Do you have any ideas as to where he might be? A... general area?”

Rufus shakes his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Aerith thinks for a moment, Cloud watching her closely. Finally, she seems to come to a decision, fingers massaging her hidden scar as she gives her end of the deal, not daring to look over at Cloud before she says it.

“I… would like to contribute to his research. As… a specimen.”

Reno lets out a low whistle.

Rufus’s eyes widen a margin, though he does glance at Cloud when his impassive expression shifts to horror. Aerith’s hand begin to shake, but she clenches her fingers into the yellow of her borrowed dress to hide it.

“Please, I… would like to know where he is. Or, at the very least, a way to contact him.”

Rufus seems to contemplate this, though it’s clear that Hojo has _not_ been removed from Shinra’s dossier. He looks to Cloud, as if checking to ensure he hasn't grabbed his sword, before he speaks to her.

“It’s true when I say the Shinra corporation no longer has ties to the professor, but we’ve all but abandoned the original offices. If he’s anywhere, it’s likely there. If I recall, he had quite the extensive… _lab_ in the basement.”

Cloud abruptly stands, taking Aerith’s arm to guide her to stand once he’s put his sword back onto his back. “Thanks. We’re leaving now.”

Rufus stands, the Turks ready to move at his signal. Cloud is ready for a fight to break out, all tense and ready to either push Aerith out of the way or defend with his sword.

“Relax,” the president croons, raising his hands in a sign of defense. “We’re not at odds anymore. You helped us with Kadaj--”

“And you never told me that what they were after, you _had_ ,” he sneers back, guiding Aerith to stand behind him. To defend her. “You would rather try to be bargain with them than ensure the safety of what’s _left_ of Midgar--”

Rufus’s expression turns _dark_.

“You blame me for harboring a few of Jenova’s cells from a gang of inexperienced brats, while you’re harboring Sephiroth himself.”

Cloud moves to draw his sword, but Aerith grabs his arm, pulling it back to his side as she breaks from his grasp. He shoots her a wide-eyed look of confusion, but when he looks back, Reno and Tseng have both drawn guns, aiming at the floor, for now.

“Cloud,” Aerith whispers, tugging on his arm. “Let’s just go.”

Cloud schools his expression back into one more assertive, fingers curling into fists.

“I’m not harboring him. I’d rather kill-”

_“Cloud!”_

Rufus _grins_ , a cat with cream. “It seems your little cetra has another idea about that.”

“Shut up,” he snaps, taking Aerith’s hand and all but _dragging_ her out the door. He slams the door behind them, letting go of Aerith to pull out his phone and call Cid, the hum of the Highwind muffled but the bulbous shape visible through the low-hanging fog of clouds. Aerith huffs at him, sitting on the steps of the lodge as Cloud waits for Cid to pick up. He does, but Cloud does not relax any further, pacing in the dusty road.

“We have a location. Pick us up.”

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that thing in Dirge of Cerberus?  
> Yeah.  
>  _That_ thing.  
>  That thing's coming.


	8. BURIED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what happened to the spacing here, but whatever. 
> 
> Next few chapters are gonna vary in length. I like chopping up big missions.

The _Highwind_ lands among the rubble of what is left of Midgar, casting dust into the air as it does so. Aerith has been silent since Cid picked her and Cloud up, though she’s dug out an oaken staff embedded with a shining orb of pale materia to prepare herself for the landing. They pass through the same hole in the plate that they had when they first embarked on this mission, and it feels so odd to recall those events as being yesterday.

 

The WRO has already arrived, formed as soon as Vincent had called and given location. The soldiers milling around there are clothed in whites and grays with red hats emblazoned with their logo. Most carry guns, some in holsters and some in hands as they check ammunition levels, and a few others carry small swords for closer combat. They all look up when the _Highwind_ lands in the mossy courtyard, though are not rightly greeted until the bridge opens with a hiss and Vincent steps out to lead their small group.

 

The WRO consists of three off-roader armored cars and a single medical van with around twenty armed soldiers and a handful of EMTs, if things turn ugly. Reeve, unsurprisingly, is not around, though neither is his indirect Cait Sith. The soldiers are volunteer, eyes bright with purpose and determination. Their goal is to restore the Planet, and what better way than to extinguish the Jenova threat at the core?

 

Vincent talks to the gathered crowd to inform them on what’s to be expected, and when they salute with a chorus of “Yes Sir!” he looks a little uncomfortable. He still leaves out key points, such as Aerith being the one that saved them so long from imminent death, and said death itself still lurking in the _Highwind_ as Aerith speaks to him in hushed words.

 

“I don’t get the political angle of why Rufus wouldn’t tell us at first, but he mentioned there are labs underground.” She’s still a bit uncomfortable at what she had needed to say just for Rufus to agree to divulge such information, but Cloud has departed the ship to speak with the WRO, and so she has no distrusting blues to pressure her. “I’m not going to give myself to Hojo… There’s no way.”

 

Sephiroth nods calmly, and when his hand passes over the blade of his newly acquired Masamune, he does not miss the way she flinches. “You shouldn’t have to. We’ll find him, and I’ll dispatch him myself.”

 

She nods shyly, edging towards the exit, though she seems frightened to present her back to him now that he’s armed. “...Did you know there were more labs underground?”

 

“I’ve heard mentions,” he confesses, following her, though out of range from his weapon, should he startle her. His actions of the night prior were enough for her to distrust him, and he doesn’t want to press his luck. “It started as a medical facility for SOLDIERs whose wounds were too great for potions or magic. Beneath is also Reactor 0, which is the primary source of power for this building. But I can still hear it working, so I’m uncertain why the power is out here… But as far as it being a lab, it’s entirely possible that the medical turned into experimental… Especially if Hojo is involved. I also heard, shortly before… my fall,” he flinches at the word, though knows not else what to use, “I heard rumors that they were planning on making SOLDIER even stronger, in the face of such mass desertions… I shudder to think of what they might have created, if they stayed that course. I heard rumors of a Lost Force replacing SOLDIER, to come halt my destruction, yet… I never saw proof of it.” And those eyes linger on the small girl with chestnut hair… the true defeat to his tirade.

 

“To think it’s been underground so long, and no one knew…” She shivers, clutching her staff tight. If she notices the odd softness in Sephiroth’s slitted eyes, she says nothing. “...The Planet is quieter, here. As if it’s being silenced… I don’t like it.”

 

He doesn’t like it either, but he stills his tongue.

 

When Sephiroth and Aerith depart, the latter still refusing to turn her back fully to him, blue eyes immediately focus on their awkward movements. Cloud goes a bit pale, drawing his Fusion Sword cautiously, stepping in front of Aerith once she reaches the ground, as if protecting her. She makes a small noise to scold him, though Cloud does little to reply.

 

But his reaction is nothing compared to the WRO members.

 

Guns are drawn as they notice Cloud’s defense, safety locks clicking off. Vincent quickly takes control, however, as Sephiroth comes to a halt and calmly stares down the barrels of their guns.

 

“He’s with us.”

 

“But Sir--”

 

“He’s _with_ us.”

 

Aerith huffs, swatting at Cloud’s arm until he lowers his sword. “Honestly, do we have to go through this every time?” She turns back to the WRO, much more polite than she had been with Cloud. “I’m sorry, but if we told you in advance, we were afraid Reeve wouldn’t agree. But I promise-- He’s on our side.”

 

As Aerith pleads on his behalf for everyone to trust, he steps away, past the small corral of vans and off-roaders until he’s before the ruined Shinra building’s back entrance, allowing the wave of nostalgia to hit him.

 

How many times had he stepped out in this courtyard for reprieve? The doors were locked from the inside, only granting SOLDIER Firsts and specified staff to enter. Though, the dusted glass of windows once shown with the excited gazes of cadets and aspiring SOLDIER classes, and he recalls a day when he had sat here with a book in the middle of the night to chase away nightmares of a woman encased in glass.

 

But among those memories are more recent delusions, and when he glances over his shoulders back to their small gathered army, all he sees are their corpses.

 

One of the footsoldiers approaches him, saluting stiffly before speaking. “Sir! We would like you to lead us in. You’re likely more familiar with the layout of this place than the rest of us. We have a map, sir, but it may not be relevant with the destruction, sir!” He’s obviously new to the recruit, beaming with an excitement behind the bland brown eyes. While there is a bit of fear when he gazes upon the nightmare before him, it isn’t at levels of panic.

 

He gives a nod, an “at ease” as the WRO soldiers slowly fall into line behind him, along with AVALANCHE, and suddenly he is twenty again, leading a crop of low-class SOLDIERs into Wutai.

 

He is comfortable, in this position.

 

Vincent walks alongside him as they enter the disrepair, the WRO members shining floodlights in the dark, powerless area. The reactors still rumble, energy still being bled from the earth below them, yet they are unable to locate the circuit breaker for the first floors. They walk through the open, yet dusty lobby, and Vincent opens the door to the stairwell beside the powered-down elevator.

 

“Nowhere to go but down,” he says in place of an explanation, nodding as a couple WRO go in first to sweep their lights down the cement stairwell, Sephiroth following in with Red XIII and Yuffie.

 

Aerith is in the back with Tifa and Cloud flanking her, her wooden staff and glowing materia in her grasp, but treated as a fragile treasure.

 

It’s silent as they descend, the air around their small group tense, as if they expect a monster to leap from the darkness or within their midst. They make it to the underground parking garage with no trouble, and they go three flights further into the dark before the stairwell abruptly ends in a chasm. It looks as if it’s been bombed, but the shine of a light and keen eyes announce that it appears the stairs had simply… collapsed.

 

“If Hojo was here, we would have hit guards already,” Cloud speaks from the rear, his protectiveness over Aerith (he’s holding her back from leaning too far over the rail) causing a crease of irritation on the Cetra’s brow. “He’s not h--”

 

Sephiroth turns to the door and, after trying the locked knob, places a firm kick to knock the steel in.

 

“Or you can kick in the door and waste our time,” Cloud mutters, clearly still bristling in Sephiroth’s presence.

 

Through the door is nothing spectacular. Just a dark hall lined with storage closets and bits of crumbled plaster from whatever explosion had destroyed the stairs. And yet, Sephiroth presses on, something telling him that it’s worth the extra attention…

 

He stops, seemingly at random, and kicks in another locked door, clear off of its rusted hinges.

 

The lights are on, in this hall.

 

There’s a hush of confusion as they move through another hall, one that looks to be in pristine condition. Their heels click against polished tile, and they make a turn into an open office as the WRO finally turn off their lights.

 

Chaos breaks loose.

 

There are guards here, clothed head to foot in dark body armor and helmets with nasty-looking guns. But they don’t react first, too taken aback by the first intruders they’ve ever had to face-- It’s a series of robots that scuttle across the floor, electricity sparking like tasers on their bodies, alarms beeping in mechanical panic as they spot intruders. The WRO opens fire as soon as the other guards take up their arms, and Sephiroth draws Masamune to rush them, instinct taking over.

 

_**Kill them.** _

 

They’re dead before they hit the floor, blood staining the ripped material of their body armor. Some have lost heads, others have merely lost chunks of their bodies too great to keep them from bleeding out within seconds. And while Sephiroth dances between sprays of blood and blade, the WRO, Vincent, and Barret make quick work of the guarding robots, and Sephiroth turns to see Cloud’s jaw clenched when he realizes Sephiroth was right.

 

“...We’re heading in the right direction,” Vincent says coldly, crouching down beside the corpses of the mutilated guards to rummage them, finding an ID card and taking their guns, giving them to a couple WRO soldiers that only have pistols. The carnage that Sephiroth had wrought in such a short time clearly disturbs some of their members, especially Cloud, as the bodies are stepped over and around and blood coats their footprints.

 

Sephiroth keeps moving, leaving the startled party to hurry after him.

 

They encounter many of the alarm robots, scuttling and rolling across the ground, but easily dispatched with a well-aimed bullet. They move through office space, aware of anything hiding behind cubicle walls. A few of their members slow to look at the computers, at the documents carelessly scattered. Vincent pockets a few floppy discs, Cloud lingers around paperwork, but Sephiroth keeps going. Something is driving him forward with a force he cannot resist, and while he knows it isn’t her, it still leaves him with an uneasy feeling crawling under his skin.

 

They exit the offices and come to an elevator, the light on and claiming the lift to be on floor B12.

 

A WRO officer hits the down arrow, and they wait as Cloud flicks through a few loose papers on the floor. His brow furrows, and he goes a little pale.

 

“Vincent, you should see this…”

 

As the lift ticks from B12 to B11, Vincent approaches, and they spill over the contents of the papers with muted concern. B11 turns to B10 and Aerith steps away from Tifa to stand by Sephiroth, her eyes darting down to his wielded blade.

 

“...Where did you get that from?” she asks lowly, eyes lingering on the small, drying flecks of blood lingering at the tip. “I know it wasn’t on the _Highwind_ , but you had it then…”

 

He shrugs, staring up at the light as B10 is B09.

 

“I’m not sure. I was missing the familiar weight of it, and it appeared.”

 

“It must have been Jenova… She’s trying to give you the means to return to your ways.”

 

B09 is B08. His hand tightens on the hilt. “I know now, when she’s close. When I killed those guards, I heard her order me to kill them. But, it seems to be more of a reflex. To kill the enemy.”

 

Aerith holds her staff in one hand, thumbnail scratching anxiously at the finished wood, as her other hand presses against her scar. She’s changed out of the sundress, now back in her white t-shirt and cargo pants. “...And we’re not the enemy, right?”

 

B08 is B07, and then B06, and finally B05 before he answers.

 

“Whoever threatens me is the enemy.”

 

She shifts, a little uncomfortable, as B05 becomes B04 and a small crowd has gathered around the papers Cloud has found.

 

“...I want to help you. I’m not an enemy.”

 

B04 is B03.

 

“I never said you were, Aerith. Not yet, at least.”

 

Her eyes soften through the whirling storm within.

 

The doors slide open with a too-normal ding.

 

The lift is full of guards.

 

There’s a brief moment of hilarity in which the unprepared guards look at the unprepared gathering before them, but Sephiroth steps forward to make quick work of them. The ones he doesn’t kill, he tears out of the lift, throwing them to the small army behind him to be discarded. He kicks the corpses out and steps in, Aerith’s eyes wide as she clenches both hands on her staff and steps over a bloody guard and into the lift--

 

With a horrendous screech of metal, the lift suddenly drops.

 

Aerith screams, stumbling and dropping her staff as they fall, grabbing onto the railing around the walls to keep herself from hitting the ceiling. Sephiroth simply crouches, holding onto the edge where the door is supposed to be as they fall past blurred levels, preparing himself for the impact of landing.

 

Suddenly, the pattern of flashing levels is gone, and they’re staring at smog and an underground city. All semblance of being in an elevator is shattered by the foggy sight, and it’s clear that they are far too high to survive a fall.

 

Pain stabs through his shoulder and he cries out as he hears leather tear, black down scattering as his wing unfolds, though it’s crooked and matted, far from the perfectly preened thing he once had. But it hurts, nearly blinding him with the pain, but he reaches to grab Aerith around her petite waist as he jumps.

 

She doesn’t even have the voice to scream anymore, hands desperately clutching to the straps on his leathers and her barely-retrieved staff as his wing pumps at the air. Though it’s clear that he’s not as strong as he used to be, flight pattern crooked and jerky before he manages to land on the flat roof of a half-ruined building, placing Aerith down before he lets himself drop.

 

He cannot fold his wing back.

 

Aerith is on all fours as she gasps for air, body wracked with shudders and whimpers of fear as she slowly calms, sitting back on her heels and sliding her staff into the sheath on her back once her breathing has evened out.

 

“Wh-where are we…?”

 

Sephiroth is standing, black down still fluttering off of his wing as he folds it against his back, as if to hide it. He’s looking out at their surroundings, something inside of him jolting when he sees the brilliant green of raw Mako roiling in small reactors that surround the massive structure that is Reactor 0.

 

It’s a bastardized version of Midgar.

 

“I don’t know,” he answers after a moment, stepping back and away from the edge when a truck drives by on a crude road, loaded with guards. Mechanical guard robots scuttle around even here, yet some are also in the air, hovering about twenty feet above the ground as searchlights occasionally shine through the smog. It’s poorly lit, with only the odd streetlight and the glow of Mako reactors. But the whole place holds a tint to it, varying between red and green shades. One that makes Sephiroth feel a little ill.

 

Aerith exhales shakily as she stands, watching his wing as it twitches and flexes before lying lax, folded against his back and still. There is fear associated with those black wings, especially after he had confessed that he had heard Jenova ordering him to kill…

 

Sephiroth turns, glancing over the edge until he finds a dilapidated fire escape. “We need to find Hojo. He has to be here.”

 

Who else would reclaim an entire city underground, filled with tech far greater than what exists on the surface? It’s like a scientist’s wet dream, and Sephiroth shudders to think of what awaits them deeper inside.

 

He and Aerith make it down into an alley, the ground nothing but hard-packed dirt and rock in places where cobblestone has long been ruined. They’re silent, hiding, as another open-topped car rushes by them, loaded with more guards.

 

“What is this place?” Aerith whispers as they step out onto the road, ducking into a tunnel that leads to the disgusting scent of a sewer to hide in, to speak in.

 

Sephiroth shakes his head, watching a security robot scuttle right past their hiding place. “I don’t know, but Hojo has to be behind it,” he reiterates, wing awkwardly maneuvering in the small space, feathers brushing against Aerith’s arm. He doesn’t notice the way her eyes linger on the large black plumes. “We just have to find him.”

 

“In this big of a city? And what about the others? We can’t just charge in there alone…”

 

Sephiroth turns to her, an odd look of smugness on his sharp features.

 

“Perhaps you are forgetting who I am, or who I was. I have the strength to push through, and Hojo wouldn’t kill me. Doubtful he would kill you, either. We’re both too precious for his research.”

 

Aerith’s eyes go wide, but suddenly she laughs, slapping her hand over her mouth as it echoes.

 

That storm in her eyes looks lethal.

 

She huffs as she removes her hand, bracing it against the wall to keep herself balanced. “So what’s your plan, General?” she asks, voice teasing.

 

The title makes his confidence swell.

 

“How do you feel about playing victim, after all?”

 

They form their plan in that tunnel, speaking lowly so their words will not echo. When they understand the plans, they crawl out, Aerith feigning weakness as he grips her bicep with bruising strength, dragging her down the road until a truck skids to a stop, a woman hopping out of the back, her identity hidden by her helmet.

 

She draws her gun, aiming it at Sephiroth.

 

He meets the silent confrontation calmly, jerking Aerith in front of him. He hears her grunt, clearly not appreciating how convincing he’s being.

 

“I’ve found the Cetra. Take me to professor Hojo.”

 

Her finger twitches on the trigger.

 

“State your name,” she snaps, voice muffled by her polished helmet.

 

“That’s no way to speak to a General.”

 

“Hey!” a man shouts from the bed of the truck, reaching over to shove at the woman to get her attention. “It’s Sephiroth, you fuckin’ moron! Let’s go!” His shielded face turns to Sephiroth, nodding at him. “We’re being dispatched for some intruders. Was that you?”

 

“Yes. You have quite the defense. Send my regards to the families of those guards I killed.”

 

The guard stiffens, words a bit more nervous when he chokes them out.

 

“Y-yes, sir. If you go back to the city’s center, you’ll want to go down to the monorail. You can take that to Central Tower. Hojo’s in there.”

 

“Thank you,” Sephiroth says coldly, beginning to walk with Aerith in tow as the female guard climbs back into the truck before it rumbles off.

 

The guards tend to stand back, not missing the blood on the sword he wields or the purpose he walks with. Aerith keeps up, though it’s clear the bruising grip he has on her arm is a bit much. But he doesn’t let go, doesn’t shatter the figment they’re creating as they find the town’s center. The robots are different, only recognizing something out of place and scuttling at them. But Sephiroth has figured out that simply sliding his blade under them and flipping them onto their backs is an all-too-easy way to dispatch them. The flying ones prove more trouble, but the glass on their screens is fragile, perfectly shattered by his sword to leave them sparking and dying on the ground. Perhaps Hojo has lost his touch.

 

Far, far above them, something explodes.

 

“Looks like Cloud isn’t willing to let you come along with me on your own, no matter what,” he says lightly, stepping down the stairs as alarms begin to ring, as robots beep and scatter. Searchlights on top of buildings light up and shine at the threat, but they’re further underground before they see it.

 

“They can distract the guards while we find Hojo,” Aerith points out, slipping out of his grasp when they’re out of sight. An empty subway car is waiting there, and he shoves her inside a bit roughly to keep up appearances for security cameras before the doors have the chance to slide shut.

 

The empty car of the monorail shudders forward, and Aerith sighs as she collapses on a cheaply cushioned seat.

 

He seems to notice now that, beyond that swirling storm of green, Aerith looks pale and near ill. She closes her eyes and melts into the metal seat as the subway chugs along, an automated voice announcing the next stop to be the medical facilities.

 

“You seem tired,” he comments when the voice ends with a melodic beep, confusion coloring his tone. He had seen for himself last night how deeply the Cetra had slept, curled up as she was. And she had eaten breakfast, and seemed almost excited when informing Cid that they had a location.

 

She opens her eyes, sighing as a hand raises to rub at her temple. “Down here… The Planet is in agony… It's warning me, but I can't tell what it’s so worried about… It's so weak down here…”

 

Sephiroth frowns. “Perhaps that means Jenova is here.”

 

She shakes her head slowly, as if in thought. “No… It's not Jenova…”

 

“Next stop, central tower. Prepare for drop off. Next stop, central tower.”

 

Aerith stands, grabbing onto one of the railings to keep herself steady.

 

“...Isn't it odd that no one else is on this with us?” she asks as the tunnel fades to light again, the monorail coming to a jerky stop at the station. “...And it didn’t even stop at the medical facility.”

 

Sephiroth shakes his head, exiting after the small Cetra. “Your friends have just bombed their roof. They have bigger problems. Perhaps they close the hospital only for emergencies.” It’s unlikely, though it’s the only explanation he offers.

 

The central tower station is quiet and smells of sewage rats, but Sephiroth resumes his hold on Aerith's arm as they emerge into the dim, greenish-red light.

 

But when they cross the empty street to the large doors of the tower’s base, Aerith comes to an unsteady halt. Sephiroth is brought to stop with her, arching an inquisitive brow at the pale look of abject terror that has stolen away that determined storm within her.

 

“...Something isn’t right,” she reiterates, though her voice is barely louder than a breath.

 

“Then let us go eliminate it,” Sephiroth orders, though he does not force her to follow him. He simply lets go, heading for the doors alone.

 

He gets them open and a foot inside before Aerith runs back to his side, pulling the staff from her back to hold with white-knuckled hands. Her boots are loud on the tiled floor where Sephiroth’s are hushed, and a woman at the front desk is openly staring at them.

 

Sephiroth turns to her, halfway to the elevator.

 

“On which floor will I find the professor?”

 

Her mouth moves, yet no words come out.

 

He repeats himself, firmer. “If you are an employee here, you know his location. Which floor is Professor Hojo?”

 

“T-top,” she stammers, reaching for a phone.

 

“Do not alert him. He is already expecting us.”

 

She nods, a trembling thing, and drops the phone loudly back into its cradle.

 

“...I don’t really trust elevators,” Aerith says quietly as they step inside, a black gloved finger pressing the button that says RESTRICTED. A passcode prompt comes up on the screen, and he enters a seemingly random combination that works.

 

She blinks as the lift begins to move upwards. “...How did you know that?”

 

“Despite his genius, Hojo doesn’t change his passwords very often.” He smiles in humor, but she looks away, finding the expression oddly… beautiful. Just as he is, shrouded in blacks and silvers...

 

But she only shifts, fidgeting. “Sh-should we have waited for the others…?”

 

“No.”

 

The sharpness of the single word makes her flinch, yet his eyes do not travel away from the small digital display as the numbers increase. She says nothing, though, seeing a darkness crowd the glow of his mako eyes as he thinks of the way Hojo’s blood will look when it becomes painted on his laboratory's walls.

 

Suddenly, the elevator begins to slow, Sephiroth’s brow furrowing as they come to a slow and creaking stop on level twenty-two.

 

The doors slide open in silence, and they’re facing down the blade of a crimson blade.

 

The woman that stands before them is grinning like a cat with cream, the long blade of her spear preventing the elevator’s doors from closing. Her hair is brushed back, though sharp curls disturb the auburn waves. Her armor is a thick and heavy leather with lines of glowing blue, though ill-covering, as if for pleasing the eye rather than providing cover. A red carpet of a cape extends behind her, though despite the odd garb, Sephiroth knows better than to misjudge her strength.

 

“What a pleasure,” she purrs, voice velvet and danger. Aerith’s hands clench on her staff, slowly pulling it from its holster. But the woman pays her no mind at all, bright golden eyes focused only on the monster in black before her.

 

“To think I get to meet the Nightmare before the others…”

 

Sephiroth’s face is a mask of blankness as he steps forward to defend the trembling Cetra, Masamune sick and red with dried blood.

 

“Stand aside,” he orders, and he gains a high-pitched bark of a laugh in reply.

 

“You think you hold power here?” That blade moves as if to caress against Sephiroth’s alabastor skin, though Masamune flashes to knock it away. “You may be a god on that precious surface, General, but you’re outmatched here.”

 

“If you’re after a fight, then let’s fight,” he says lowly, hiding the way those words dig under his skin to prove suspicions. “If you’re built to be stronger than SOLDIER, then let us prove it.”

 

The woman grins maliciously and steps back, as if to entice Sephiroth out, to battle with her. Aerith makes a small noise of distress, though Sephiroth does not take the bait.

 

His finger punches the CLOSE DOOR button as Masamune shoots through the closing gap, fending off the crooked spear’s advance to allow them to close as their trip renews.

 

Aerith has not relaxed.

 

“...What was wrong with her? Her eyes were… glowing. Like Mako, but… brighter,” she whispers, prepared for this lift, too, to fall at the mercy of that woman.

 

“I told you that there were rumors of Shinra perfecting SOLDIER to be stronger.”

 

She nods.

 

His face is oddly grim as the numbers tick up into the thirties.

 

“I believe we just encountered one.”

 

The small screen displaying their numbers suddenly glitches, though the lift does not stop. Aerith gasps, nails creating half-moon indents into her staff as Sephiroth narrows his eyes at the child’s face that appears there.

 

“Where is Vincent Valentine?”

 

Sephiroth arches a brow at her distorted words. “I do not know.”

 

“We need him.”

 

“Is that so?”

 

Those young eyes are just as golden as the crimson woman, and Aerith ducks behind Sephiroth’s wing to buffer between her and that piercing gaze. Though that face is perfectly blank, as if she’s simply a flesh robot.

 

“You can help us as well, Aerith Gainsborough,” she calls, and Sephiroth can smell the way she sweats in renewed fear. “And you, Sephiroth…” The small voice trails off, as if she’s unsure. And when she speaks, it’s with almost remorse.

 

“You will perish here.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ironic that Sephiroth judges Rosso's outfit when he actually has his entire chest uncovered. Ego is the gravedigger.  
> But, my lovelies, we're getting ever closer to AeriSeph territories. Nothing turns her on more than dead Hojo hahA. (I'm kidding, of course)


	9. INSANITY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GORE WARNING: All of this. Holy shit. Whenever Sephiroth is about to kill someone?? Yeah, gore. Be very careful, friends. The most graphic is the first fight. I tried to tone it down for the second.
> 
> Also in this chapter: Aerith loses her breakfast, Sephiroth sheds like a sickly cockatiel, and Nanaki sets things on fire.

The video feed dies as the elevator stops at the correct floor, Aerith pale and Sephiroth looking a tad…  ruffled . They step out into a dim hallway, white floors and white walls just as what had laid under the Shinra building’s first layer. The silence is deafening as they walk, Sephiroth softening his step as Aerith attempts to do the same, hoping to catch their target by surprise…

 

Sephiroth turns to the first door, glancing over at Aerith, who is holding her staff with both white-knuckled hands. She’s clearly uncomfortable, possibly going into a fight with the man that killed her, though Sephiroth can hardly blame her. The door itself is locked, but that’s nothing a well-placed kick can’t fix, ad Aerith is wide-eyed at the curved metal of the once-door.

 

Within the first room, the lighting does not improve, but the floor turns into stone sheets, stains of what must be  blood and marks from blades and  claws marring the faintly carved surface. It’s clearly a lab, patches of tile covering the rock in places as if it’s simply been torn up to show the worst of the flagstone. There are rows of large computers humming and blinking, the room a bit  hot due to the heat they’re putting out.

 

And yet, the one thing they look at is a tank of mako with a window to the contents. Tubes lead to the dome-like structure from the computers, wires and pumping pure  mako . Aerith doesn’t approach, eyes wide in  horror , though Sephiroth steps forward to peer inside.

 

A man floats in the liquid, wires in his head as if he’s not entirely human. Spikes of silver hair taper into a  mane behind his back, pale naked skin tense and twitching over engineered muscle. His eyes are closed, though Sephiroth can see them dart beneath the lids, as if the poor creature is dreaming.

 

“Sephiroth,” Aerith calls softly, standing at a door at the opposite end of the room, pointing to the circular window into the handleless door.

 

He approaches, skin crawling at what he had seen.

 

Had he looked like that, at one point? A monster, suspended in mako and isolated…?

 

He glances through the window in the door, wing curled tight against his back as if trying to hide it from his own mind and the way it keeps hissing  monster …

 

Through the window is a room that looks much the same, though only in the poor state of patchy tile and dirtied stone. There are no computers, but white boxes and metal shelves, as if it’s a storage room. It’s a little  curious that Hojo would put his latest experiment in the front room, but… Perhaps that’s his way of bragging. He has enough faith in this fucked city that no one will meddle.

 

They step into the storage room, Aerith eager to get out of the room with so much mako where the Planet had been  screaming to her. The storage room is much cooler, and they weave between boxes and shelves in aim of the door across the way.

 

“I never knew the Nightmare ran away,” comes a purring voice, and Sephiroth barely has the time to turn and swipe with Masamune to knock away a spear. He grabs for Aerith to shove her behind him, wing exploding outward in a rush of black feathers as the clashed weapons remain locked.

 

“Why don’t you  help me? I’m sure you could trade your Mother in to become a Tsviet…” The spear pulls back, as does the woman, beginning to circle Sephiroth like a lioness around a herd of spry prey. “I want to take the life from this planet. I want to  eradicate the weaknesses… And I’ve spent long enough waiting down here. Do you not share the same goal?”

 

His jaw clenches, but he otherwise looks impassive as he turns to follow her, giving Aerith another shove so she runs to duck behind one of the crates, hands still tight on her staff as the materia atop begins to glow as she considers attacking.

 

“...But if you don’t wish to  assist , then I’ve no choice but to end you here. I won’t let a fallen god stand in my way.”

 

He swipes at her with Masamune again, but she jumps away, turning her spear horizontal as she begins to fire  bullets .

 

Aerith ducks back behind the crate she’s chosen, and Sephiroth’s sight turns blue-tinted as she casts a shield around him. Though, he avoids the bullets easily, sidestepping faster than the woman can adjust her aim, flashing in and out of sight until he’s upon her, Masamune pierced through her stomach.

 

Aerith feels as if she might faint, hand fisting above her navel as her scar  burns .

 

And yet, the woman only  grins. She does not bleed.

 

“You think you could kill me so easily?”

 

Sephiroth is forced to pull the blade free as she strikes with her odd weapon, slashing a tear in the arm of Sephiroth’s coat, though not cutting the skin, thanks to Aerith’s barrier. He huffs a low laugh as the Tsviet steps back, grinning at him with mirthful  aggression .

 

“I never thought I would meet someone less human than  I . Consider me impressed…?”

 

“Rosso,” she  purrs when he gives pause, her accent rolling her R and making it sound like a threat. “I traded human weakness to be a Tsviet. To become  powerful . Surely… you can relate to such a desire?”

 

Sephiroth shakes his head, wing curling in preparation to flash too quickly for eyes once more. “For someone who claims she can kill me, you’re trying awfully hard to make friends, Rosso…”

 

Something sparks in her eyes-- a realization --and she  laughs .

 

“Oh, I may not be friends with you, but I know someone who  used to be… I wonder if he would like to see you again. You’ve both become so  soft … You, toting around a little  maiden , and him--”

 

Sephiroth strikes before she can finish, her shrill  scream echoing through the room as she falls, thigh bleeding  profusely as her leg is completely severed.

 

“Ah,” Sephiroth says idly, pupils dangerously  narrow , “you  do bleed…”

 

Kill her.

 

He does not obey.

 

Instead, he lowers that blade to Rosso’s throat when she attempts to get back up, using her weapon as a crutch.

 

“Where is Professor Hojo?”

 

She’s  gasping for breath, the pain nearly  blinding . But she still has the strength to  grin , laughing between gasps of air. “The  Professor …? Even if you find him, you can’t kill him… You’ve already met Weiss…”

 

His eyes narrow, the tip of his blade puncturing the skin on her neck, threatening to slice her jugular. “If you tell me where I can find Hojo, I will make your death quick.”

 

“And if I don’t?”

 

Masamune is a  flash of silver, and Aerith is hidden behind the crate with hands over her ears as Rosso screams again, three fingers on one hand now removed.

 

“If you don’t, we will be here for quite a long time, until you do…”

 

“...You want to overtake this place?” she snarls, a beaten dog still fighting. “Hojo is not in charge… It’s  us … The Tsviets. And you’ve made yourself our enemy.”

 

“That isn’t what I asked.”

 

Another scream. Her  hand gone, weapon falling to the floor.

 

“Where is Professor Hojo?”

 

She’s rapidly turning pale, and Sephiroth notices with a twist of his gut that her red blood has tints of blue and green… of  mako . The pool is soaking into the red fur that once draped like a cape, and she’s shaking with the effort of staying awake as she gets the sense to stammer an answer.

 

“...On the roof…”

 

Masamune slices through her neck, and he takes pride in watching the light fade from her eyes as mako-enhanced blood spills around her exposed spine.

 

His boots leave footprints of tainted blood as he locates Aerith, looking down at her where she’s huddled, her staff beside her as she curls into the fetal position, hands clamped over her ears like a child scared of thunder.

 

He crouches in front of her, and the spill of silver hair gives her pause to look up, fingers slowly removing from her ears.

 

“...Do you think me a monster, Aerith?”

 

She takes a trembling breath, tears streaking her face. She stares at him for a long time, at pale skin and cat-like eyes, at silver hair and bloodstained sword…

 

She takes another breath, hands curling on her knees.

 

“...No.”

 

Pale brows arch in surprise, head tilting to send waves through his hair. His wing curls back towards his spine, and Aerith tries not to stare as she watches it  disintegrate , black feathers littering the floor.

 

“I murdered you,” he reminds, voice soft and smooth.

 

She shakes her head, gripping her staff as she begins to stand. Sephiroth stands with her, watching as she scrubs her eyes dry.

 

“That wasn’t you. It was… her.”

 

And those innocent green eyes drift over to the broken body of Rosso the Tsviet, and she gags on the smell of gore.

 

He reaches for her wrist, tugging her towards the door. “Let’s go. We need to get to the roof.”

 

She nods weakly, though he hears her whisper a prayer under her breath for the fallen.

 

They take the stairs now, only a single flight until they reach the roof exit. Sephiroth puts his hand on the knob, but stills when he feels a small, warm hand between his shoulderblades.

 

“...You pushed me out of the way,” she says quietly. “...You made sure I wouldn’t get hurt. That… doesn’t make you a monster. And you killed her… because you had to. Right?”

 

He will never understand how such a small girl can hold so much pure  kindness .

 

He opens the door to the roof and steps out without a word.

 

There is more lab equipment here, more white metal crates. Computers with translucent screens line a tall fence that traps the roof within, and Hojo is standing with his back to them, hands folded behind his back as if he hasn’t a care in the world.

 

Sephiroth notices wires trailing from his head.

 

Hojo turns, glasses only making his eyes look larger,  wilder . And he smiles, a slimy look that makes Sephiroth’s stomach turn over with vile memory. He remembers the scene Aerith had implanted in his mind, and the hatred and  fear he had felt…

 

He ensures Aerith is behind him as he steps forward.

 

Hojo speaks, and Sephiroth pauses at the words.

 

“If you’re here to kill me, I’m afraid it won’t do you any good.” He gestures to the wires taped to his temple. “My consciousness is being streamed into the net. Implanting itself into a body more built for  immortality …”

 

Sephiroth’s hand squeaks in leather as his grip tightens.

 

“I’ve learned a lot since you failed,” he says simply, reaching to press a series of buttons on the computer, the machine  whirring . “I used to think power laid within JENOVA cells, but all of my experiments ended in degradation or, in your case,  insanity . I need stronger,  loyal soldiers. Immortal, yet obedient. Mind control chips implanted to keep them focused on their task, synthetically produced bodies…” That grin  grows . “You’ve already killed one, but you’re no match for the  army . If you kill me, you’ll become their enemy… Though, you already have, haven’t you? This is your end of the line.”

 

Being told so many times that he will fail, he will  die … It irritates him, it chips away at his pride. It reminds him that, without JENOVA, he is only a man weakened with a hangover from when he was drunk with power.

 

“Are you finished?” Sephiroth snaps, stepping forward and allowing Masamune to drag on the metal floor, sparking as if  hungry . “I want to kill you for my own self. I don’t care if I’m killed after this…” And then it’s his turn to smile, lips pulling a bit  too far, as if Hojo’s madness is contagious. “I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve died. Once more will not matter.”

 

It’s clear Hojo wasn’t expecting that sort of answer, smile faltering as Sephiroth closes in on him, sword still dragging and sparking like something out of a horror movie…

 

“Tell me where JENOVA is.”

 

“Missing your mommy?” he  giggles , though there is fear in those dark, mad eyes. “Shouldn’t you be able to find her yourself?”

 

“Where. Is. JENOVA.” That sword raises, held in preparation to strike the madman before him.  


 

“I’m afraid  threats won’t get you an answer.”

 

“...Very well.”

 

Aerith has already turned to hide her eyes when she hears the startled sound of  pain as Sephiroth impales Hojo through his chest, sword burying into computers and hardware until the hilt is pressed to a blood-soaked lab coat. He rips the wires from his head, a gloved hand closing around that throat.

 

“You’re a sick  fuck , so I suggest you start praying for forgiveness.”

 

And he jerks that head around, forcing Hojo to look at Aerith’s back as his life drains away.

 

“Though I doubt she’ll ever forgive you. She’ll  damn you for what you’ve done.”

 

But Hojo  grins .

 

“You’ve… only killed a  body … not… my  mind … Just like  you …”

 

And in a fit of rage that has been boiling since he was a child, he snaps that neck and leaves Masamune embedded, long strides carrying him to Aerith.

 

“Jenova isn’t here,” he says stiffly, hands in tight fists at his sides. “But we’ve dealt with Hojo. Let’s go back to meet with the others.”

 

He moves to step past Aerith and through the open door, but the Cetra suddenly turns, staff clattering to the metal ground as her arms wrap tight around his waist, her tearful and damp face pressing into his chest.

 

He goes rigid, arms half raised as if he’s considering returning the embrace, but she  sobs against him, and he allows his hands to rest on her shoulders.

 

“...Why are you crying?” he asks lowly, looking down as silver falls over her. She only buries her face deeper against his bare chest, sobs hitching around breaths as she trembles against him.

 

“Aerith,” he calls gently, brows furrowed in concern. He finds her chin, guiding her face away from his chest and upwards to look at him. “Why are you crying?” he repeats, a bit firmer with his worry.

 

She sniffs, pulling her hands out to fold to his chest. “You must… You must be in so much  pain ,” she whimpers, fingers curling over the belts that cross his chest like a target. “I’ve seen it in your eyes this whole time, how much you wanted to kill him, and now…” Grass searches Mako for a long time before she forces down another sob. “And now they look so  sad …”

 

“...I am not sad,” he states, confused. “I’m glad he’s gone. I don’t mourn him, nor the Tsviet.”

 

She shakes her head, tugging at his belts in frustration, trying to get the correct words out. “You’ve been through so much, and I can see it in your eyes! The Planet’s crying for you, she wants to forgive you…”

 

His eyes widen, though she continues to speak.

 

“The Planet’s telling me to go North, she has been this whole time! She’s been so worried about me telling you, scared you’ll return to Jenova, but the Planet has  forgiven you, Sephiroth, and so have I.”

 

He bows his head to rest on the crown of her head, eyes tightly closing. She could be lying, trying to get him to agree with her and follow her north… But she isn’t. Those pools of green have not lost their fire even in a flood of tears, and her words are so honest that he feels winded for a long moment.

 

“I killed you,” he whispers, hands pulling away from her, as if he’s forbade to touch. “It was by my hand. I… was too weak to resist her. I was nothing but her puppet…”

 

And so softly that he would have missed it, were he not resting in chestnut curls that smell of lilies, Aerith whispers.

 

“I forgive you.”

 

Her head tilts upwards and he lifts his, though keeps it bowed to watch the storm in her eyes grow braver, swirling like a galaxy around the darkness of her pupils. Those garden-worn hands reach up to touch at his jaw as if he might be made of glass, thumbs brushing across his chin as she seems to consider something, the breath in her lungs pausing for a moment as those other-worldly eyes flicker to his lips, parted in question…

 

“...If you’re a monster,” she whispers, and he can taste her breath, “why do you look like an angel?”

 

His eyes close, pale lashes brushing his cheeks. “I was made to look like this,” he murmurs, not wanting the warmth on his face to leave. He can smell her, this close, and she smells of sunshine and flowers amid the acrid smog of the city…

 

“You’re lucky you got your mother’s looks,” she giggles softly, and his eyes open in question, only to find her much closer, head tilted to look at him. “...You just brutally murdered two people in front of me, and all I smell is blood... Why… do I want to be this close to you right now?”

 

His breath leaves him in a sharp sigh, his chest tightening as his hands curl into fists at his sides. “...Because you must be as insane as I am,” he finally breathes, and she laughs, warm breath on his face and the smell of toothpaste and breakfast.

 

“You’re not insane,” she gently scolds after her laugh, one hand remaining on his jaw as the other trails into his hair, her eyes widening childishly. “...Your hair is so soft…”

 

If she is summer, then he must be winter. Pale, cold, confined… And she is vibrant, warm, open… He could never have her, never claim her life again. She is the Planet’s daughter, warm and beautiful and all degrees of perfect, where he is the spawn of a Calamity that tried to kill everything it touched… He was built and raised to destroy, to strike fear so great within enemies that they would surrender without fuss. He was made to be a weapon, a Nightmare, a Demon.

 

And yet here he is, watching the world’s last Cetra play with silver strands between her fingers before she looks up at him again, a small pink tongue wetting her chapped lips.

 

And where he had previously stamped on glowing white petals, he now crouches to carefully pick a flower among the destruction, picking it so gently from the root as he takes those warm summer lips within his.

 

He expects her to pull away in disgust, to turn that hand upon his jaw to  slap , but she does neither. Rather, she makes a sound not unlike a  whine , hands raising to caress his jawline as his tense hands raise to her hips.

 

He keeps it short, pulling back a fraction to peer down at her, watching that storm whip harder,  faster … It reaches a fever pitch, bright and nearly  violent as she looks at him with partly closed eyes and damp lips.

 

“...I’m sorry,” he whispers, lips still tingling with warmth and her taste. As if the ice is melting there, allowing flowers and grass to grow on barren, unloved soil. It’s a nearly  addictive feeling, and he wonders if he will ever be granted such mercy again. “That was inappro--”

 

Her hands grip his face to pull him down again, her feet rocking to stand on her toes as she kisses him again, full of energy and eagerness, as if she’s forcing herself to do it before she returns to her senses. Yet, he remains still, only moving his lips when hers do so, a sharp exhale from his nose coming as she takes his sensitive bottom lip between hers to suckle, hands sliding back into the smooth waves of his hair.

 

She breaks it when she rocks back to her heels, breathing heavily with pink cheeks as her hands slowly slide down until they’re clasped in front of her stomach.

 

She looks a little  shy as he lets go, bending to pick up her staff. As if she comes back to reason and has realized just _whom_ she has kissed.

 

“W-we should try to find the others… They'll be worried.”

 

“Of course,” he murmurs, leaving his sword to impale the man that both created and destroyed his life as they head back down, his lips so  warm that he finds himself licking at them when she isn’t watching.

 

When they get to the front room, Aerith hovers around the mako tank, looking to Sephiroth before peeking into the glass.

 

“Rosso… said something about Weiss,” she says softly, fingers brushing against a plaque. “...This is him.”

 

Sephiroth frowns, though doesn’t hesitate, crossing over to the computers and pulling the wires that lead to the synthetic man’s head. Aerith watches with wide eyes, watching as he pulls the emergency stop on the mako pump as well.

 

“...Human or not, he won’t survive without nutrients or oxygen being pumped in,” he says lowly, peering through the glass. The twitching muscles still, darting eyes settling. “Even if he were to live, he can’t get out of that tank. Hojo had the access codes. He wouldn’t have written it down anywhere.”

 

Aerith nods slowly, though she does not pray for Hojo, she does send a soft one for Weiss, for what torture he must have gone through to become what he is now.

 

They take the elevator in silence, no interruptions until they come back to the main floor, and the woman behind the desk looks ready to faint when she sees the blood on Sephiroth’s boots and gloves.

 

Aerith smiles politely at her, almost in apology, before following sweeping silver hair outside.

 

“I believe I’ve found your friends,” Sephiroth announces when she joins him, gesturing to a nearby street that is echoing gunshots and sounds of battle. Aerith goes a little pale with worry, snatching Sephiroth’s arm to drag him towards the noise.

 

Their small army is even smaller, some of the WRO members missing. They’re obviously overwhelmed, guards in their high-tech suits swarming as robots scuttle on the ground and air while they ring their alarms.

 

Cloud is slashing at the footsoldiers, though it’s clear he’s growing tired. Barret is firing at the robots in the air, Vincent perched above on a rickety fire escape acting as a sniper. But even as Yuffie throws miniature grenades and Red XIII ignites a soldier on fire, it’s clear that they’re losing.

 

Tifa is the one that notices them first, breathing hard as she runs over to put a hand on Aerith’s shoulder, checking her over for injuries after seeing the blood on Sephiroth.

 

“Hojo is dead,” he informs her, carmine eyes wide as she turns to him. “JENOVA isn’t here. It would be wise to draw back for now.”

 

“How do you expect us to get back up?” she snaps, panic under the front on her face. She knows they’ll lose here, they’ll die, or  worse …

 

And she doesn’t even know about the Tsviet threat.

 

“The only elevator broke,” she continues, taking a beat to kick away one of the scuttling robots. “The only way we can get up is if we fly!”

 

She appears to regret the suggestion as soon as it leaves her mouth.

 

“...I can’t carry all of you,” Sephiroth says lowly, Aerith taking a break from the conversation to cast a healing spell over the exhausted forces fighting an uphill battle. Cloud finally sees the pair, looking both relieved and a little bothered before he’s distracted by a soldier charging him.

 

Sephiroth continues, frowning. “...There is another exit. We would have to climb up the reactor.”

 

Tifa’s eyes, if possible, go  wider . “That has to be a mile high, at least!”

 

He frowns. “How did you get down, if not by that?”

 

“We climbed down the elevator shaft. The cables were still intact.”

 

Sephiroth looks a bit  impressed . “Well, we can’t use that to go up.  It’s much easier to go down cables than return up the same way. The reactor is our best bet.”

 

Tifa looks back to their gathered party, watching as they continue to get pushed back. “So we just run and hope they won’t follow?”

 

“I can handle the guards.”

 

Aerith frowns up at him. “...You left your sword.”

 

He raises a brow down at her and she blushes minutely. “...It seems you keep forgetting who I am. I can handle a few guards.” He turns back to Tifa, expression grim. “Hurry. There’s someone here looking for Vincent and modified humans called Tsviets. Powerful, but cocky. Watch yourselves.”

 

Tifa jogs over to Cloud to relay the plan in his ear, and the group runs in a plume of smoke created by Yuffie. And when it clears, the soldiers are faced with Sephiroth, the others having run down twisting alleys to reach the reactor.

 

Thankfully, they do not see the gored carnage he leaves behind.

 

The climb up the reactor is slow and uneventful, though made easier by service ladders and platforms. The guards are below them, though not firing their guns, merely watching and waiting for the obvious retreat to be completed. (That is, until Sephiroth arrives to  dispatch  them.) Tifa and Cloud continue to press Aerith about what happened to Hojo, the WRO flanking their group to protect from flying robo-guards, but she never says more than “Sephiroth killed him.”

 

They fight their way through scattered guards when the reactor reaches the final level of the Shinra complex, forming a huddle just outside, where the medical vans are quickly inspecting minor wounds that Aerith’s spells could not quite fix.

 

“We need to rage a war on that place,” is the first thing said, and it’s by Cloud, who leans his sword against one of the vans as he sits on the bumper. “Rufus is still financing Hojo’s research. The documents we found… He wants to make something stronger than SOLDIER. Something barely human…”

 

“We can’t focus on Deepground  and  Jenova,” Vincent says cooly, glancing over to Sephiroth, who has taken a cloth from one of the medics to wipe the blood from his leathers. “...I think it would be best to part our ways now. Hojo has been eliminated, and Deepground is a hornet’s nest we just kicked. I’m surprised they didn’t follow us up.”

 

“How do you suggest we split?” Cloud nearly  growls , eying the way Aerith steps quietly to Sephiroth’s side, body gravitating towards him as he hands off the bloodied rag from the medic he got it from. Though when she sees the blood, she shies a bit.

 

Vincent sees the distrust plain as day, though he still makes the decision. “I will work with the WRO to contain Deepground. I suggest you coming as well, after we review the computer files I retrieved, and--”

 

“I’m not leaving Aerith alone with him,” he interrupts,  pain behind the distrust. “I promised I wouldn’t let her die again.”

 

Sephiroth speaks, striding forward to join the small gathering. “I was just alone with her for at least one hour, Cloud. Does she have a single scratch?”

 

Cloud looks her over briefly and relents, though he remains tense.

 

“If you can’t trust him,” Aerith speaks, stepping closer as her palm rests on Cloud’s arm, where a stigma once festered, “trust _me_ , Cloud… I’ll be alright.”

 

The distrust immediately melts as his eyes turn to her, and he stands to step to her, hands lifting as if he wants to touch, but falling awkwardly to his sides.

 

“...’s for my own piece of mind,” he whispers, and Sephiroth is taken aback by how  broken that voice sounds. “I can’t lose you again… Even if it’s not him that hurts you. If it’s Jenova or just some  monster that ambushes you… I just  can’t  lose you again, Aerith… Please…  Please  understand that.”

 

She softens, reaching to place a hand on his shoulder. Tifa steps near, her eyes reflecting the same mourning  loss as what haunts Cloud…

 

But Aerith smiles at him.

 

“...Zack told me to trust him.”

 

Cloud’s eyes widen, a whisper of the fallen First’s name on his lips.

 

“He wanted me to bring him back, insisting he could be of help… He saw you happy with Tifa and Denzel before he passed on completely, but he warned me you wouldn’t like the plan… Sephiroth is trustworthy, Cloud. Please… your strength is needed here, before whatever was down there comes up here.”

 

Cloud looks  torn , looking to Tifa with that broken expression. She takes his gloved hand in two of hers, squeezing it as she looks back to the open honesty on Aerith’s face, and the way Sephiroth watches silently as he is still surprised at Cloud’s sudden break of his aloof anger…

 

But he sees the way Cloud glances at him, calculating, and he calmly steps away to inform Vincent of Tsviets and someone  else Rosso had hinted at…

 

But at the end of it all, Cloud Strife is a stubborn man.

 

“I’m sorry, Aerith, but if something were to happen to you…”

 

She sighs softly, rubbing his arm before she lets her hand fall, giving him a small smile. “Alright… But you’re gonna have to work with Sephiroth if you’re coming.”

 

His eyes instantly harden. Tifa squeezes his hand.

 

“ Cloud ,” Aerith scolds, as if chastising a child that refuses to share a doll. “I was just alone with him and he did  nothing to hurt me. He protected me, made sure I was covered before he fought. I know you don’t want to trust him, but please just…  cooperate with him.”

 

Stiffly, he nods.

 

“If you’re going, so am I,” Tifa says quietly, one hand moving to hold Cloud’s wrist as the other twines with his fingers so naturally. Aerith smiles at the wolf insignia ring she sees there that matches the stud in Cloud’s ear.

 

“We should talk to the others,” Aerith suggests softly, and the pair agree and step over to speak with Barret and Cid, where they sit being stitched up by medics.

 

Quietly, she looks over to where Sephiroth continues speaking in hushed tones with Vincent, and for a split second, she sees a familiarity between the two. Almost  paternally does Vincent speak with softened eyes, and she wonders how things would have changed if Lucrecia had ended up with him…

 

She rubs at the scar on her stomach and moves to assist the medics in any way she can with a small smile as the storm in her eyes begins to calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think my goal with this fic is to update at least once a month? It really depends on how motivated I am, and a sure-fire way to motivate me is to comment, honestly.
> 
> Also, Winnie? I wanna marry the shit outta you.
> 
> In the next update: Tifa attempts Yuffie's method of trust and Sephiroth finally does his laundry.


	10. COOPERATION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Winnie is my beta now but I wanted to do one more chapter before 2016! I'm a terrible author I'm sor ry
> 
> In this chapter: Laundry is done, Yuffie despises yogurt, and Cloud has a panic attack.

After the unexpected battle at Deepground, the WRO departs back to their headquarters with Vincent to plan their assault while AVALANCHE and Sephiroth return to Seventh Heaven via the  _ Highwind _ and truck route that they had taken to get there in the first place to rest themselves.

Things are oddly  _ tense _ without Vincent around to play mediator, though while everyone bickers about which order they’re allowed to shower in (Aerith is first, everyone concedes) Tifa approaches Sephiroth as he stands in the living area upstairs, watching the smog and the huddled shadows of people that traverse among the streets through the window. He notices her approach, but does not turn to her, waiting for her to start whatever it is she came up here for in the first place.

“...You had every opportunity to hurt her,” Tifa says quietly, yet  _ tensely _ , arms crossed under her chest as if to protect herself from the  _ air _ around him. “Why didn’t you?”

He turns to face her only now, leaving his expression as open and honest as he can manage. “I had no reasons to. She, nor any of your group, have posed a threat to me. Save for that brief moment when I arrived, but I think we’ve settled that.”

Her brows furrow, as if she finds his excuse  _ suspicious _ . “Then who’s a threat? Who do you want to kill?”

“JENOVA. She’s had control over me for far too long, and I’ve never been fond of puppet strings.”

Her eyes harden, red and  _ burning _ at his choice of words. “Nothing but an empty puppet,” she mocks.

He shrugs, bloody leathers creaking. He has no retort, nor an excuse, for that.

“...I’m surprised Yuffie trusts you, let alone  _ Aerith _ …” She trails off curiously, arms lowering as one hand forms into a fist. “I’ve always hated Shinra, SOLDIER, all of it… All they care about is draining the Planet dry so they can live cushy lives at the expense of others. They want to be so strong that can rule the shell of a planet they would be leaving behind… They’re greedy, everyone from the president to a janitor, I know it.” She takes a breath, keeping herself from a venting  _ tangent _ .

“Even after Meteor, nobody made an effort to stop Shinra. And in… a  _ weird _ way… you helped focus Shinra’s energy away from all of their work. They stopped caring about reactors, and only about  _ you _ , and that made our job… harder. We had to stop you, and ShinRa, and now Rufus thinks we’re  _ allies  _ just because you’re the enemy of his enemy... But Cloud… he suffered from JENOVA too, and his hallucinations took your form, as if she  _ wanted _ us to kill you… As if she wanted everyone to know about you, to defeat  _ you _ while Meteor was hailed...”

She’s starting to logically come around to things, to believe that Sephiroth had only been a pawn, but it’s clear she doesn’t want to believe that Sephiroth was the unwilling victim or puppet of  _ anything _ . 

But before her train of thought can advance, because she can vocalise her thoughts any longer, that fist pops up, hitting Sephiroth in the jaw so hard that his head snaps back and hits the window, blood blossoming in his mouth from where cheek cut into tooth, glass rattling in the pane.

Unlike the punch from Yuffie, Tifa’s is strong, sure, and she holds  _ nothing _ back. She holds the right form to put her weight into the strike, bouncing briefly on the balls of her feet before she steps back, ready to defend.

There’s a brief ache of pain that fades after a few seconds, his head righting as he wipes blood from his mouth onto his glove. He then lowers his hands slowly, blinking at her for a moment of silence that passes too slowly. A silence that he breaks first, when he can no longer handle it.

“...Are you satisfied?”

Tifa inhales deeply and steps back again, fists still clenched tight at her sides. Though, the one she hit him with is a bit looser, likely with pain from hitting his sharp jaw as hard as she had.

“No,” she exhales sharply, eyes still full of fury and raw  _ hatred _ .

And he can hardly blame her. For what he’s taken from her, and for what he’s  _ given _ her; a long scar on her chest just barely covered by clothing and faded with age. Her memories of him are covered in smoldering embers and blood, warped by the death of her closest comrade and the crippled mental state of her childhood friend. One barely successful mission is hardly enough to atone for that.

She has so much hatred for him, and she still does not know the details of what had happened in Deepground. She does not know of how much blood he spilled, and to what extent his cruelty had stretched.

“Tifa?”

The woman  _ startles _ , like a cat too focused on a mouse to notice a dog approaching. She spins to look at Cloud, who is so tense that it’s a wonder he can even move. He’s out of his combat clothes, just in a t-shirt and jeans and smelling fresh from a shower, though the look in his eyes and the stiffness of his spine takes away any sign that he’s actually  _ relaxed. _

“...Shower’s open.”

Tifa nods, shooting one last suspicious look to Sephiroth before she exits, Cloud tucking his arm almost  _ possessively _ around her waist as they make their way to the hall.

A shower… sounds  _ fantastic _ . Sephiroth is still covered in blood, his boots having been the worst offence and left downstairs by the door as to not dirty the floors. Yet his leathers still stink of it, a few bits of blood staining the tips of his hair from when he had bent down before Rosso.

He only spends a moment longer looking out at the grays and browns of Edge through the window before he turns and descends downstairs, where Yuffie is in an argument with Cid over how  _ disgusting _ yogurt is while Cid eats a small container of it with a scowl. Red XIII has laid down for a nap before the fireplace, and Barrett is seated at one of the tables to help Marlene with her homework.

It’s so domestic that it makes him a little… ill.

He doesn’t  _ fit _ here.

He has killed two people in the past ten hours, and a whole number of faceless soldiers that he can’t even begin to count. And he had  _ enjoyed _ it, blazing a trail with his blade, leading on a group of warriors to face a single goal. And to kill Hojo, the disgusting weasel of a  _ father _ , had given him the most satisfaction out of it all...

Aerith exits the kitchen with Denzel to shatter morbid memories, the boy chewing on a sandwich and Aerith holding a steaming mug of tea. Her hair is down, hanging in damp curls against her back as she wears the pale, though dusty, dress over her shower-pinkened skin.

They make eye contact for less than a second before she hurries after Denzel and into a side foyer that doubles as a waiting room for patrons when the bar is too busy.

Sephiroth does not follow. He knows a fleeing lamb when he sees one.

Instead, he steps into the kitchen, crossing over to the large basin of the sink, running the water and finding it only cold, the hot water being used for showering. He doesn’t mind it, shedding his bloodied coat and removing his gloves, taking a rag near the basin to begin scrubbing his leathers clean under the cold stream that turns the clean steel of the drain a bit darker.

He makes quick work of his small chore, scrubbing his hands clean after from where dried blood had turned liquid and soaked under his nails. He cleans the ends of his hair next, retrieving his boots from the back door to clean those as well. And by the time he’s finished, his fingers are a bit pruned from the coldness of the water, though he doesn’t feel the pain there.

He places his boots by the door again, hanging his coat from a hook on the wall meant for that purpose, though is empty with the spring weather.

The door to the kitchen opens with a creak shortly after he’s finished wiping at his pants, and he turns to see Aerith there, braid freshly woven and weary pink ribbon back in place. Her eyes are wide, the storm within churning unsteadily. Her hands are clutched tight over her stomach, and she doesn’t speak as they simply…  _ watch  _ each other.

“You… You could’ve taken a shower, instead of washing in the sink…”

“I don’t mind,” he says dryly, not missing the way her eyes look back to the scar on his side and the mark on his hand before returning to his eyes.

And those pink lips part, fingers fidgeting with her dress, as if she has something  _ urgent _ to say…

But Cloud interrupts again, to fetch himself a glass of water before he leaves, quietly guiding Aerith back out with him.

And so goes the following two days.

Aerith approaches him with war in her eyes and pink lips parted, but she flees, if they aren’t interrupted first. Those brilliant greens begin to drop from him, as if pretending he were not there. She sleeps in the room Tifa and Cloud share, and during meals, she sits as far from him as possible.

Sephiroth has never been  _ ignored _ before, and he isn’t sure what to take away from it. He simply gives her space, polishing and cleaning his leathers or staring out the window or playing poker when Cid grows too bored.

He feels…  _ separated _ .

He finds himself thinking often of that adrenaline kiss just paces from Hojo’s body, the way she had melted into the contact almost  _ eagerly _ . The way he could spot freckles faint on her cheeks, the smell of her flowering  _ soul _ , the warmth in her hands as she had touched him, unafraid for just a moment…

The thoughts nearly drive him  _ mad.  _

Though, despite his restlessness, the group takes their time to rest from battle, to plan attacks on Deepground and JENOVA. Cloud, Tifa, Aerith, and, of course, Sephiroth, will be heading north, to the vague destination the Planet is whispering into Aerith’s ever-listening ears. The others will be assisting Vincent and the WRO with Deepground, which, over the past forty-eight hours, has been suspiciously quiet. They’ve been watching the news for even the slightest leak, but the reporters are only going on about reconstruction efforts and the odd weather to come from the poisoned atmosphere.

Barrett announces that he’s going to take the kids to Corel to keep them safe with friends, to keep them away from whatever might explode from Deepground in unexpected time. He takes the truck the eve of that second day, and the small group meant for JENOVA will be taking Tifa’s smaller truck. Once they arrive at the shore, they’re to take a ferry to Icicle Inn, and from there…

From there, they rely on the Planet and Sephiroth’s intuition.

And that is as far as they have planned.

Cloud clearly isn’t a man for planning, announcing as they sit around the table in the dining area (Tifa, Cloud, and Aerith sit. Sephiroth stands several paces away.) that there are simply too many unknowns that can happen, and they don’t even have a definite location to travel to. They plan for the Northern Crater, Cloud running a hand over his face at the idea of returning there. A hand that Tifa takes to hold under the table.

“The remnants came from the Crater,” he says quietly, his free hand pointing to the general area on the old map. “If she’s anywhere, she’d be there. That’s where Rufus got that piece of her head…”

“It was only fluid,” Aerith whispers, her eyes wide and unseeing as she stares at the map, her mind clearly disconnected from the scene before her. “It was only fluid that they retrieved before they were attacked. The Planet... “ She shakes her head slowly, as if in a trance, as she listens to the whispers. “The Planet still has so much pain there. It’s like an open wound, open and infected… Festering...” She blinks, then, looking up at the others as if she’s just woken from a nap. “Cloud’s right. JENOVA’s there… She has to be.”

“Perhaps the biggest  _ part  _ of her is there,” Sephiroth speaks up, Aerith startling as all eyes turn to him. “ShinRa went there and left with only fluid. Perhaps they weren’t able to carry the bulk of her. Only three remnants were made, correct?”

“Right,” Cloud murmurs, brows drawing together as he begins to follow Sephiroth’s train of thought.

“Three is such a small number. If JENOVA is capable of humanoid creation on her own, why hasn’t she made more?”

“She could make an army,” Cloud adds, hand squeezing even  _ tighter _ to Tifa’s. “She would have  _ wanted _ to make an army…”

Sephiroth nods. “She knows she cannot rely on me any longer, which is why she would have made the remnants in the first place; to spawn a vision of me.” He turns to Aerith. “Were they truly human?”

Silently, she shakes her head. 

Cloud, rather, answers for her. “Vincent said they were only a process to recreate you. When they died, I saw Kadaj dissolve into light and ascend.”

Sephiroth’s eyes harden. “What color was the light?”

“...Green?” he answers, confused. “It looked like--”

And then he stops, reaching the end of Sephiroth’s thoughts. Reaching the same  _ conclusion _ .

“They were mako and JENOVA, dissolving to the air. The Crater is so deep that the lifestream runs raw there, which is likely the source to that pain Aerith is being told of. JENOVA is smart; she would not have made three puppets and stopped there. Her goal is the destruction of the entire Planet. She could have just made three to keep you busy while she set her mind to other things. To create geostigma to slow you, or kill off her first wave.”

“The Crater runs underground,” Cloud says slowly, beginning to grow pale.

Sephiroth nods once more, encouraging his thoughts. “We did not see the entirety of Deepground, but there was a subway system. The rock down so deep is more than able to be tunnelled through.”

Tifa speaks up, having been watching the two of them like a tennis match. “Are you saying that those soldiers in Deepground were JENOVA’s… spawn?”

“No,” Cloud corrects, standing as he begins to slowly pace, eyes haunted. “No, they were worse. But the north is so isolated… JENOVA could be spawning an entire army underground, using the Lifestream and the caverns there to hide… Carving tunnels of her own...”

“And when a piece of her dies, it moves to the strongest part of her. You said Kadaj  _ ascended _ , which means she has her hands in the Lifestream.” He looks to Aerith, who has gone ghostly pale. “She’s hidden herself so well that even the Planet’s own daughter can’t sense her.”

Cloud stops pacing, hands braced on the back of the chair he had been sitting in. “She… She wouldn’t have a physical form, then?”

“There may still be physical forms out there, but her consciousness and power is within the Lifestream. And her skills at possession…” He trails off, allowing their gathered experiences do the talking. The silence stretches for a long moment, their eyes slowly drawing back to the map.

“...So we go north,” Tifa says after a moment, a hand pressing over the area just north of the Icicle Inn. “We go north, and we… dig?”

Cloud shakes his head. “We’ll go into the caverns. To the bottom of the Crater. Wherever she or her army is.”

They begin to plan for the details now, Tifa stepping out of the room to gather what winter clothes she can find as Cloud accesses a safe behind the counter to check emergency funds to pack for ferry fees and inn rent. He uses the bag Aerith had taken from Cid’s ship to pack it, heading to the kitchen just as it happens.

Sephiroth does not react. He feels an ache in his skull, as if his brain is being  _ squeezed _ , and he hears  _ her  _ whispering and hissing to him, but he can’t understand what she’s saying. The only possible indication that something is amiss is the way his left fingers briefly twitch as if holding the hilt of his Masamune.

Aerith, on the other hand, is  _ screaming _ .

It’s so sudden and raw that Cloud drops the bag and runs to her, hands reaching for her. But she jerks away from him, eyes wide and filled with  _ horror _ . Her chair tips, though she begins to crawl away on her back, stumbling to stand as her eyes stare unblinking at Cloud, pupils dilated with absolute fear.

There is a spot of blood on her dress, just above her navel.

Cloud freezes and goes pale. Sephiroth can  _ hear _ the way his breath catches.

Tifa runs in, an armful of winter clothes thrown to the side as she runs up behind Aerith, catching those flailing arms in her own and pulling her up. She doesn’t notice the blood, Aerith turning and immediately burying her face into Tifa’s shoulder, back heaving with sobs.

Cloud turns ice-cold eyes to Sephiroth.

“...What did you  _ do?!” _

Sephiroth raises his hands in defense when Cloud begins to rush him, and then he  _ sees _ it.

Everything is on fire, Aerith is bleeding out as Tifa cradles her limp body, and Cloud is  _ berserk _ , bloody Buster Sword wielded as he commits it to bathe in his sin of  _ rage _ .

But the image flashes away as soon as it’s gone, and he hears it.

**_You’ll die. You’re all to kill each other. Die. Fight. Diediediediedie!_ **

Cloud must hear it too, because he abruptly stops, eyes wide as he looks to Sephiroth, and then to Aerith, to where she clings to a very confused Tifa.

“What… What’s going on?”

Cloud swallows, fists clenched as he trembles, breaths fast and unsteady. Sephiroth has seen it enough on cadets or fresh Thirds to know that it’s an oncoming panic attack.

“We must be correct. JENOVA is upset with us,” he says evenly, watching Cloud carefully.

Aerith calms, breathing deep and steady as her own visions fade. Her hands immediately close over her stomach, where there is no longer any blood staining the once-delicate dress she wears. She looks to Cloud, to Sephiroth, and back to the map again, swallowing thickly.

“Sh-she… It was a warning. We… We have to go. We have to stop her.”

Sephiroth nods, watching as Tifa suddenly notices the panic overtaking Cloud, rushing to him and cupping his face, forcing him to look at her eyes as she whispers reassurances to him. Sephiroth blocks the words out, knowing he is not privy to such a moment.

Instead, he looks to Aerith, to watch her gather the dropped clothes with trembling hands as she begins to fold them, to put them into the bag Cloud had retrieved. She’s clearly still frightened, though she hides it will, zipping the bag shut as it reaches its fill of winter gear. She stands when she’s finished, and she makes the mistake of looking at Sephiroth.

She takes a breath. Pink lips part.

“We need to go,” Tifa cuts across, having successfully brought Cloud back, though he’s pale and oddly rigid. “I’ll get our weapons. Aerith, there’s another bag in the kitchen, in the closet next to the door. Grab some of the fresh clothes from the laundry room to pack. Cloud, can you go make sure the truck has gas?” She then turns to give Sephiroth an order, but she pauses a moment, unsure. 

“...Come with me,” she finally decides, rushing upstairs to retrieve weapons that she can’t carry by herself.

When they’re standing in her and Cloud’s room, as she’s loading the Fusion Sword into its holster, she shoots Sephiroth a suspicious look.

“What happened down there?” she snaps.

“JENOVA has ties to the three of us. Aerith, more powerfully, considering her connection to the Lifestream. I heard her as well, and saw the horror she  _ wanted _ me to see. You… have no connections to her. At least, none strong enough to form an influence on you.”

Tifa frowns. “...Aerith mentioned she tried to teach you how to block that out. There’s a way to defend, isn’t there?”

“JENOVA is strong. Even moreso when she’s upset.”

Tifa huffs, handing the swords off to Sephiroth after hesitating a moment before she grabs Aerith’s staff and a pair of brass knuckles from her drawer. “You talk as if she’s  _ human _ .”

“...Human has a varying definition, lately.”

It takes them just over ten minutes to have everything packed, Tifa sitting behind the wheel and Cloud in the passenger seat with a map. This leaves Sephiroth and Aerith in the back seat with a pile of bags and weapons between them, and a moment for Aerith to actually  _ speak _ .

Yet she doesn’t. Not until they’ve driven well into the night and Cloud is asleep and Tifa is filling up at a late-night gas station.

“I… wanted to apologize,” she says quietly, mindful of Cloud’s needed rest. “I’m sorry I’ve been… avoiding you. I’ve been… thinking about things. And with what happened at Seventh Heaven…” She gives him a small smile, a little forced. “This is the time we need to  _ really _ work together. I was proud that you and Cloud managed to work together like you did. We just… need to keep that up.”

He makes a noise in his throat, not having been expecting an  _ apology _ . “Perhaps it’s that uniting force that made her angry. She’s going to try her best to pit us against each other. You need to be on guard.”

She nods, watching Tifa return the nozzle to the pump before she heads into the small shop to spend some loose gil on coffee.

“I’ve stopped listening to the Planet. It seems like… JENOVA can reach me there. It’s not safe anymore. It just feels… cold.” She frowns, reaching to brush a finger over the materia embedded within the wood of her staff, only visible as small flecks of color.

“...Nowhere is safe,” Cloud speaks up, Aerith jumping a bit as he keeps his eyes shut. “‘s why we gotta stop this. The three of us… are her favorite targets. We just gotta keep an eye out.” He pauses, opening bright blues to glance back at Sephiroth, where his eyes faintly glow in the dim. “...On ourselves, and each other.”

Aerith smiles. “I knew you’d come around to him,” she teases, to which Cloud scoffs and resumes his position as navigator. 

“I’m just saying that I’m gonna kill him the second he tries anything, Aerith. Out of all of us, he’s the biggest threat.”

She simpers, sitting up as Tifa returns with a coffee for herself and Cloud to share, passing a bottle of cranberry juice to Aerith, who beams at the small gift.

Sephiroth raises a brow as he’s given nothing but a shrug as Tifa resumes driving. Though, he hardly has the grounds to be upset about it like a child would.

But before she starts the car, she takes a breath.

“I was talking with the clerk… He said he’s seen someone suspicious out here. He was wondering if we would stay in the area and keep an eye out…”

Cloud frowns at her. “...Define suspicious.”

She glances to the mirror, to look to the ex-General seated behind her. “...Eyes like a SOLDIER. He said that’s all he remembers. He’s been lurking around, never really comes out of the shadow… Which is strange, because the only thing here is this station, an inn, and a couple farms.”

Cloud also glances to Sephiroth, briefly making eye contact as he turns back to Tifa. “...Well, the ferry doesn’t run ‘til morning anyway. We should stay… It might be a remnant.”

Tifa nods, leaving the gas station and driving to the inn. They seem to be the only customers, and they each carry their share of gear (which means Sephiroth carries everything except for Cloud’s swords and Aerith’s staff) as they step inside and Tifa pays for their rooms.  _ Plural _ .

Tifa takes one of the bags from Sephiroth’s arms, looking between him and Cloud. “...Boys in one room, girls in the other. I told them to give us a wake-up call in the morning.”

Cloud bristles, immediately unhappy with the decision. “But--”

Tifa turns to him, like a mother scolding her child. “Would you trust me or Aerith to share with him?”

“...No.”

Tifa nods, satisfied with her answer, and they head up creaking stairs to their respective rooms.

“I hope you know I’m not gonna sleep,” Cloud mutters to Tifa as she holds the door for Aerith, rolling her eyes at him as she enters and the door to room 1A shuts.

Sephiroth opens the door, noting that they lack  _ locks _ , and steps inside to a room with two single beds made in white linens and a small wooden table for them to share. He places the remaining bag on said table, peering into their small ensuite bathroom to find a toilet, a small stall, and a rusted sink.

“...Charming place,” he comments dryly, turning to see Cloud claim the bed closest to the door, lying a piece of his Fusion sword across his lap. “...Charming pose, too. What are you doing?”

Cloud raises a brow, watching closely as Sephiroth removes his coat to hang over the bathroom door. “As if I’m going to let my guard down in front of you.”

“Well,” Sephiroth exhales, flipping the light on in the bathroom and stepping within, “if you want to make sure I don’t murder a wife and child while I shower, would you prefer to sit in here?”

Cloud’s eyes harden, not finding Sephiroth’s joke very  _ funny _ . “Shut up.”

He begins to close the door, but then he pauses, the wood bumping against his boot.

“...What the clerk at the station said? I doubt it’s a remnant. I have other suspicions.”

But as Cloud opens his mouth to speak, he shuts the door, the latch not quite clicking thanks to his coat over the top. He showers quietly, taking advantage of the hot water so he might be able to  _ think _ .

The remnants, from what he’s managed to gather in small discussion, looked like him. Cat-like eyes, silver hair, and black leathers… Fast, dangerous, and  _ chaotic _ . If it were a remnant lurking in the area, he would have attacked. Though, for SOLDIER-like eyes…

Only First-Class SOLDIERs had the infamous mark of glowing eyes. A side effect of too much mako enhancement. The Tsviets, or at least  _ Rosso _ , had eyes of gold, which means it won’t be one of them. But the First-Class SOLDIERs he knows are all gone. Angeal, dead. Zack, dead. Himself,  _ questionably  _ dead. Genesis…

His spine stiffens.

Rosso had mentioned someone else. Someone he used to hold in camaraderie. A mockery of a  _ friend _ .

But Genesis has honor, in a twisted way. He honors  _ himself _ , carries himself with the dignity of a golden chocobo with its nose in the air; a peacock fanning his feathers just for the envy of others. He would never stoop to lurking in shadow, to not having a proper home to return to at night.  Though… Genesis had been degrading. Would it be possible for him to be a full-fledged  _ monster _ now? Or is it merely a Genesis clone, left over from so many years ago just to wander…?

He exits the shower after washing with complimentary soaps, the small bottle of shampoo near empty just from his hair. He dresses back into his armor, stepping into the main room to find Cloud in the exact same position.

He arches a brow, though says nothing, crossing to the sheath that holds the rest of the blades.

And Cloud is up, hand tight around the hilt of his blade, though it isn’t raised. “What are you doing?”

Sephiroth pulls his hands back. “I’m going to find the thing with SOLDIER eyes. If you haven’t noticed, I’m unarmed.”

“You’re not taking a blade.”

“...Very well, then.”

“But I’ll go with you.”

Sephiroth stands to his full height, canting his head slightly. “And why is that?”

“Someone has to keep an eye of you. Besides, if I let you go out there, I’d never be able to sleep.”

The former General sighs, feeling more like a child that needs supervision than an adult. But Cloud pauses before following Sephiroth to the hall, pulling his sheath onto his back and popping out an orb of materia from his blade to offer.

“Here. You can use that.”

Sephiroth inspects the small green piece, holding it between thumb and forefinger. “...Ice materia?” Though, he places it in a slot on his pauldrons regardless, grateful for the consideration. At least he won’t be tearing apart hesitant, mutated soldiers with his hands or stolen guns this time.

“Take it or leave it,” he mutters, pushing past Sephiroth to get to the hall and down the stairs. “Let’s go.”

The town is small, yet large at the same moment. The space is dedicated to crop fields and livestock pastures, small homes jutting up occasionally on the two-track dirt they call a road. The roar of waves can be heard over the otherwise silent night, and the lack of any noises from insect or animal is… discomforting.

“We should check the station first,” Cloud announces as they bump along the road, windows down as Sephiroth’s damp hair flies and tangles around his face.

(He’s mostly certain that Cloud rolled them down just out of spite.)

“Of course,” he agrees lazily, “but what’s the plan beyond that?”

Cloud scowls, hands gripping the wheel a bit tighter when they hit a larger pothole. Again, out of spite. “Then we find it and we ki--”

“Stop the truck.”

Cloud doesn’t for a moment, eyes narrow and brow furrowed, but Sephiroth grabs for the emergency brake and Cloud brings the truck to an unsteady halt. 

“What the hell?!”

“Quiet,” Sephiroth hisses, opening his door and stepping out into the cool night air, stepping onto a dirt driveway as Cloud comes after him, muttering under his breath, though he pauses when he sees where they’ve ended up.

An apple orchard.

“They’re no Banora Whites,” Sephiroth muses quietly, striding with purpose up the way, “though, it’s enough to supply a memory of what used to be.”

Cloud frowns, finally catching up. “What are you talking about?”

Sephiroth does not look at him, eyes too busy scanning the orchard as they draw nearer and nearer to a quaint cottage. “I have my suspicions of who may be the  _ suspicious _ one.” And when he reaches the door, he glances over at Cloud, his hand raising to knock. “Humor me, Strife.”

“Just shut up…”

But those gloved knuckles do not hit the door, a voice interrupting from on the eaves above them.

“ _ Even if the morrow is barren of promises; nothing shall forestall my return.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know if this counts as a cliff hanger because I'm sure 99.9% of you know who that is.
> 
> In the next chapter: Lots and lots of poetry, and headaches. Both are most definitely correlated.


	11. CONFESSIONS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to _try_ to update this every month or 2 month period. _Try_.   
>  Also... winnie has gone missing? Dunno. 
> 
> In this chapter: Cloud is paranoid, Genesis is a budding alcoholic, and Sephiroth just wants everyone to shut up.

The last time Sephiroth had seen Genesis Rhapsodos, it had been  _ far _ from a pleasant encounter.

His former _friend_ had been degrading, silver streaks in his hair as black feathers grew limp and shed. His body had been weak, though Genesis had never allowed him to truly _see_ the extent of that. His supposed cure had only led in monstrous clones; a cruel reminder that he is no more human than Sephiroth himself, despite his words. Those cruel, piercing words and a selfish request had served to push his once-friend’s mind to the breaking point. Sephiroth’s madness had blossomed due to hatred and a profound sense of _loss_ , of suddenly and abruptly not knowing who or _what_ he was, and is. And Genesis had _pushed_ him, spewing the words _perfect_ _monster_ like some kind of curse.

And yet, here he is, dropping from the eaves with every bit of dramatic entrance as he can muster, looking no different than he had before he had grown a  _ wing _ .  _ LOVELESS _ tucked under his arm, a materia-infused earring hanging delicately among auburn hair without a single mark of gray…

Yet in those undeniably SOLDIER eyes… Sephiroth catches flecks of gold.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” he drawls coyly, watching between Cloud and Sephiroth as if he’s observing two children that have made habit of stealing each others’ toys and pulling hair.

And while Sephiroth is still looking over the phantom of what he had suspected, yet never  _ expected _ , Cloud has drawn his sword, eying the way that the arm that isn’t holding a tattered old book is hanging near a crimson rapier.

“Genesis,” Sephiroth says evenly, ignorant to the way an odd  _ recognition _ flashes in Cloud’s eyes before he pushes it back behind a stone cold front. “I never thought you would be one to lurk in shadows and scare gas station attendants.”

Genesis  _ scoffs _ , tucking the book into a pocket within his jacket. His jacket, which Sephiroth can  _ smell _ , is hiding blood amid red leather. “And I never thought you would work with  _ Strife _ , of all people. Especially after what he did to you in that reactor… So sorry I didn’t stick around for that, friend.”

Sephiroth’s fingers twitch, though he schools his expression to the same blankness Cloud carries. “You were degrading. You should be dead.”

“So should you. Though, the Great Sephiroth can best even death, can’t he?” he mocks, pushing between the two to open the front door and step inside. “But your time has passed. You’re not as perfect as you think you are.”

Pale brows lower, eyes narrowing. “I never claimed to be perfect. It was others that insisted that.”

Genesis gives a slow shrug, raising his arm to place his hand on the doorknob. “I never heard you deny it, old friend.”

Cloud speaks up then, a bit  _ lost _ on their back and forth. “What are you doing here? I thought all of the First Class was wiped out.”

Genesis turns to peer at Cloud from beneath overgrown bangs, looking upon him as if he had completely forgotten he was there, sword slid onto his lower back again, but hand still on the hilt. He turns to Sephiroth again, taking in the absence of Masamune, and opens the door with an almost  _ bored _ expression.

“Let’s talk inside. You never know who might be sneaking up on you.”

Unless Sephiroth is being  _ paranoid _ , he hears a threat in that undertone. Nonetheless, he follows Genesis within the small cabin, if for nothing else but to get answers. The memory of Genesis asking for his cells to recover from his degredation is still fresh, though now seeing Genesis in such a  _ healthy _ state… It’s intriguing, if nothing else. But with the gold in his eyes, he can only assume what he had done. After all, hadn’t Rosso offered him the same deal? To trade the monstrosity of SOLDIER for something  _ better _ … Something far less human and far stronger.

From what he knows of his former friend, he can come to conclusion that Genesis would have accepted such a deal without a second thought. Especially with how  _ desperate _ he had been at the end…

The interior of the cabin, however, doesn’t appear to match Genesis’s style at all. The wallpaper is guady with pinks and yellows of roses and cherubs, the wood floor old and scuffed. The couches are intricately printed with more floral designs on yellow and white, cushions sagging and flat. A doorway leads to a light orange kitchen with outdated appliances, the rest of the home up through a stairway that would creak just by looking at it. The entire place smells of  _ must _ , of uninhabitance, yet a bowl of red apples sits on an end table beside an old lamp, shining in the light of a fireplace.

None of the electric lights are on. Candles line the hearth and small tables and shelves on the wall, trying to mask the old smell with wax and tallow. An odd choice-- Sephiroth knows fully well that this area has electricity. If not from ShinRa, than from natural gas provided at the station not a mile away.

Cloud seems to pick up on this as well, neither one of them moving off of the large rug at the entrance.

“And why do you live  _ here _ ?” Sephiroth asks lowly, probing eyes finally resting on Genesis’s back, jaw clenching at the tear he sees where a broken blade struck, from what seems like  _ ages _ ago…

“A change of pace, Sephiroth,” he simpers, tossing another log to the fire before he crosses to the couch, dropping his weight upon it as delicately as one can. But Sephiroth can  _ tell _ that he’s carrying himself differently, almost as if he’s  _ nervous _ , which is practically unheard of for Genesis. The way his shoulders do not relax, the way he carefully orchestrates every movement, even as gloved hands reach for a red apple.

“...No more dumbapples. Though, I’ve always been a bit sentimental, I suppose.” He turns the apple in his hands, as if handling it will turn it purple… Though he simply drops it back into the basket, propping his elbow on the armrest to rest his chin on his fist. “Well, don’t stand there like statues. Didn’t you want to  _ talk _ ?”

Sephiroth does not move to sit, nor does he even  _ look _ at the mock memory of Banora Whites. No, he looks at Genesis’s face, at those flecks of gold and his complete absence of the degradation he had been suffering from. He remembers Rosso’s words, the way she offered for him to become a Tsviet with her, to trade JENOVA to become something  _ stronger _ …

Genesis would have taken that deal, without a doubt.

“You were in Deepground,” is his simple conclusion. He feels Cloud get a bit more tense beside him, hand drifting back towards his blade again.

Genesis’s look hardens a fraction, and he exhales heavily as he stands, eying Sephiroth almost  _ suspiciously _ .

“And what do you know of it?”

“I recently was there,” he says simply, “and I left Masamune embedded in Hojo’s heart.”

“Oh, I  _ know _ .” 

Cloud turns to look at Sephiroth, eyes a little wide at the confession as Genesis paces over to the fire. Beside the hearth is a long, thin package wrapped in scraps of white cloth, most of it bloodstained. Genesis picks it up and holds it out for Sephiroth, who eyes him for a long moment before crossing over and taking it, unwrapping the strips of cloth to find a bloodied Masamune. The scraps are from Hojo’s coat.

“Why would you return this?”

Genesis merely  _ shrugs _ , though both shoulders move just as well. His injury is  _ gone _ , and he strides back to face the fire as Sephiroth throws the scraps of a bloodied labcoat into the flame.

As Sephiroth carefully sheaths his recovered weapon, Cloud steps off of the mat, towards the couch, though he doesn’t sit, like a dog on watch as he paces with slow, unnoticing steps.

Genesis scoffs a laugh after a beat of silence, back now to the flames. “I heard you sliced Rosso into tiny little pieces. Every bit the  _ monster  _ I knew you to be.”

The word now does not have as much effect as it did  _ then _ . He’s already accepted it as a title, as a simple statement of what he really is. Despite Aerith’s arguments, he can still feel  _ her _ there, still lingering after her attack at Seventh Heaven. Waiting for a break in his psyche to reclaim him.

He will not let it happen again.

Genesis shakes his head, though Sephiroth sees a masterfully cloaked  _ flinch _ as the wood among the flames gives a loud  _ pop _ . Cloud, however, doesn’t notice. Doesn’t know how to look for the little things in Genesis’s posture. But the man recovers smoothly, canting his head to the side as he eyes Sephiroth with those gold-speckled irises. “The only question left to ask is how much you learned in your brief visit.”

“Enough.”

Genesis laughs, though it’s short and bitter. “ _ My friend, the fates are cruel; There are no dreams, no honor remains… _ ”

The words are so familiar, so  _ beaten _ into his head, that Sephiroth finds himself continuing as Cloud’s brows furrow with confusion. “ _ The arrow has left the bow of the goddess. _ ”

Genesis smiles, though it looks a bit  _ sickly _ in the flickering light of the candles and fire. “It seems more of a prophecy now than ever before. We’re at the brink of world’s end. Though… the poem is unfinished. We don’t know what awaits after the world is over.”

“You still believe in that book?”

Genesis glances through his bangs at Sephiroth, arching a brow. “Don’t you?”

“That book never spoke of bringing the dead back to life, did it?”

He laughs again, though it sounds more like a pitched exhale. “ _ To become the dew that quenches the land… _ ”

Sephiroth is silent, leaving Genesis to his own quiet reflection as those mixed eyes fall to the floor. The fire begins to die, flames travelling to one side of the new log before Genesis flicks his wrist without turning to the fire, materia in his earring flashing with color as he generates more fire to thrive.

Any and all memories that Sephiroth can think of with Genesis, from when Genesis was a fresh First high on his first treatment of mako to their sparring, which oft got out of hand and relied on Angeal as a mediator… Any and all of them are  _ poisoned _ . To think that Genesis had only ever dreamed of being better, of being stronger… His dreams were not JENOVA’s, he did not want to burn the world, but he wanted to be the  _ best _ . He wanted to be the Demon of Wutai. He wanted to be the Great General. He wanted to be  _ god _ . And he had sat on the sidelines, watching as Sephiroth took all of his dreams. Until he had  _ broken _ , until he had  _ snapped _ , and Angeal was not there to keep the peace as one degraded and the other grew blindly  _ psychotic _ .

At least Zack had the chance to go with honor.

Sephiroth moves, uneasy as his former  _ friend _ continues to stare unblinking at the wood slats of the floor. He looks upon the picked basket of apples, the way their red shine is dark and dull with impending rot.

“...You took the Tsviet’s offer, didn’t you?”

Cloud looks up when Sephiroth breaks the silence, that look of confusion returning. He repeats the word “Tsviet” under his breath, wondering if he’s missing out on something… Which he  _ is _ \-- Aerith wasn’t very willing to speak of the woman Sephiroth sliced apart, for respect of her own stomach.

Genesis doesn’t answer for a long moment, but when he does, his voice is low and directed to the floor, unmoving save for the way his arms lift to cross his chest defensively.  _ “My soul, corrupted by vengeance; hath endured torment, to find the end of the journey… _ ”

“Which means?” Sephiroth drawls, already growing irritated by the all too familiar poem.

“ _ Pride is lost _ ,” he recites plainly, turning to rest those multicolored eyes on the former general fully. “Don’t tell me you would not have done the same. The era of SOLDIER is over. It’s left to Tsviets and immortal bodies. It’s a game of power, and humanity isn’t going to stop until they create, or  _ become _ , gods.”

“Is it truly  _ humanity _ , at this point?”

Genesis merely shrugs again, a lazy, uncaring gesture as he steps away from the fire, pulling  _ LOVELESS _ back out of his coat and tossing it to Sephiroth, who catches it easily. He does not open it however, waiting for an explanation.

“Hollander was an old quack, to put it lightly. He only wanted clones, not a cure. I was on the brink of death when Deepground soldiers came for me, and I woke in a cavern to that offer. To forgo JENOVA and my degradation in exchange for something better. For raw mako and synthetic genes that will  _ never  _ grow old. The fountain of youth and the gift of immortality in one. I nearly thought I had been mistaken, that Rosso and those scientists had been the goddess all along.” He pauses at the window, pulling dark curtains aside to see the truck, no longer running, at the end of the drive. “With the Tsviet’s bodies… they could best both of you,  _ easily _ .”

Cloud tenses, glancing to Sephiroth before back to Genesis, as if he’s expecting one of them to jump into an attack. He’s  _ incredibly _ uncomfortable here, in a small cabin with Sephiroth and a second First that used to be  _ friends _ with the ex-General. But he’s ready, hand resting on the hilt of the Fusion piece he brought with him.

“They told me that many times, yet Rosso is dead,” Sephiroth says flatly.

Genesis just grins at him, unfazed by the loss. “She  _ did _ like to talk too much, didn’t she?” He shrugs when he gets no response but a stony look as he closes the curtains once again, striding over to look into the flames. Nervous energy. Something is  _ off _ .

“...You’re a part of Deepground, then?” Cloud finally speaks, clearly not liking the implications of that. 

Genesis glances over his shoulder to Cloud, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear so he can see, materia glinting in the firelight. “Just as much as you’re a part of SOLDIER.”

Cloud goes very still.

“Looks like you do remember that little stint. Yes,  _ both _ of you were a little muddled up, weren’t you?” Genesis teases, taking pride in the way Sephiroth’s fists clench and Cloud  _ bristles _ . “Don’t look so surprised. Your little trips in the lifestream were like a movie. Kept me entertained, watching the two of you play cat and mouse.”

Sephiroth’s eyes narrow. “The Lifestream?”

He sighs, pressing his palm to his temple, covering one eye as he turns again. “Oh, how  _ silly _ of me. I forgot to mention… Even  _ deeper _ than Deepground, under Reactor 0, you know… the Lifestream is raw there. They left me there while doing their treatment.” His hand drops, and Sephiroth swears he sees that gold within  _ glow _ .

Cloud’s eyes widen at the words, looking to Sephiroth before back at Genesis, looking a tad  _ pale _ as Genesis takes delight in how much the little backwater cadet has changed.

“The Lifestream,” he repeats softly, recalling their previous  _ ramshackle _ plan. “That’s where JENOVA is.”

“Correct,” Genesis praises, picking up another piece of wood to throw carelessly into the hearth. It sparks and pops, though he doesn’t flinch this time. He turns to Sephiroth, then, arching a brow. “You’ve angered your mother, I’m sure you’re aware. She wasn’t pleased with me, either, for not keeping her  _ son _ \--”

“You’re giving me a headache,” Sephiroth deadpans. “Just tell me why you’re here and what you want. We’ve gone in circles for long enough.”

For once in all of the years Sephiroth has known him, Genesis is silent.

Cloud seems to sense that this is unusual as well, slowly tightening his grip on the hilt. He’s more than willing to  _ persuade _ him into talking… But he had told Sephiroth he intended on killing whatever spooked the gas station attendant. He has no qualms if it’s a hybrid SOLDIER.

Genesis shakes his head at the defense, however, crossing through the arch into the kitchen, returning to his confused and  _ suspicious _ guests with a bottle of Wutain rice wine.

“Sake?” he offers, setting the bottle down and fetching wine goblets from a nearby shelf. 

“Answer the question,” Sephiroth demands smoothly, holding the glass that Genesis commits to his hand before dropping it, shattering it against the hardwood floor.

The stillness and the silence is  _ deafening _ . The fire crackles in its hearth, but there’s another  _ pop _ and Genesis drops the other glasses in an exposed flinch.

Those gold-flecked eyes are wide, and, not for the first time, Genesis looks  _ scared _ .

“Answer,” he orders once more, voice barely over a whisper. “What has you spooked? Why are you here, living with candles instead of light?”

He’s a deer in the headlights, caught with shattered glass around his boots and two sets of  _ piercing _ eyes burning into him. He’s never been able to hide something from Sephiroth, but he thought he had been getting better at it, after he began to degrade…

“You’ve been a fugitive before, haven’t you, Sephiroth?” he says quietly, eying him like a mouse might a  _ hawk _ . Preparing to be swept up and killed. “Immortality and youth come at steep prices… And some fine print I don’t agree with.”

Cloud releases the hold on his blade, leaving it in its sheath. “You’re running from Deepground?”

Genesis seems to recover then, inhaling through flared nostrils before he turns to fetch a broom for the glass. “Deepground, SOLDIER, ShinRa, you name it. I’m, near literally, being pulled in two directions. SOLDIER wants my cells, and Deepground wants my strength and mind.” The glass is swept into the fire, melting slowly among embers. He rests the broom against the wall, leveling a look at Sephiroth.

_ “The wandering soul knows no rest.” _

“Whose side are you on, then?” Cloud questions, taking half a step closer. A final question to decide if he should kill Genesis or let him live…

“My own,” he answers simply, as if offended that Cloud would even  _ ask _ such a thing.

“And what does  _ your _ side stand for?” Cloud snaps back, just as quickly.

Genesis pauses again, as if trying to gauge how his answer will affect the growing tension in the room. He already has a purpose, Sephiroth can tell. It’s burning behind those eyes, along with the fear of a man being  _ chased _ .

“Deepground is on the brink of an explosion after what you did, Sephiroth,” he says slowly, measuring his words. “It’s going to erupt, and the Tsviets will destroy  _ everything _ . You and whatever army you’re building isn’t going to be able to stop them. I know how to  _ control _ them. And I think the world needs a new hero, don’t you? One that isn’t some terrorist group or a man with a  _ personality _ disorder.”

Both Cloud and Sephiroth tense, Cloud’s jaw setting tight as Sephiroth simply goes quiet.

“Did all First Class SOLDIERs have a hero complex?” he growls, voice low as Genesis continues to push him without raising a finger. “Or is it a  _ god _ \--”

Genesis cuts him off, voice smooth but  _ cold _ .

“You would know better than I would. You were closest to Fair, weren’t you? How  _ badly _ did he want to be a hero? Did he rescue you just so he could get his ego groomed?”

That is Cloud’s tipping point.

He draws the fragment of his Fusion sword in a fraction of a second, stepping onto the coffee table to jump over it, raising the blade over his head as if he plans on beating Genesis down and back to stuff him into the fire--

But Genesis reacts quickly, drawing his rapier to deflect, though his boots skid against the floor as he’s pushed back with the force, the tail of his coat dancing close to the flame. But he looks almost  _ delighted _ , rushing Cloud with strikes that send him reeling, though he only stumbles for a minute before Sephiroth sees a switch go off and Cloud  _ focuses _ . He also sees Genesis’s earring glow in preparation to cast, and he acts quickly.

A wall of ice constructs itself between Cloud and Genesis, though it instantly steams and melts as it takes the full blast of a fire spell. Both of them turn to look at Sephiroth, though Cloud hasn’t fully relaxed his combat stance.

“We won’t get in each other’s way,” Sephiroth speaks up, eying the pair like  _ children _ . “Genesis, do whatever it is you think you’re entitled to. Cloud, I believe we have a plan to follow?”

Genesis  _ grins _ . “So you two  _ are _ working together. For what?” he asks, like a child asking when Santa might come to town, sword still in his hand, though pointed to the puddle on the ground.

“None of your business,” Cloud says flatly, stepping back and away, towards the door. He looks uncertain, not wanting to let Genesis fufill his own plans. “Stay out of the way.”

Genesis only sheathes his sword, leaving them with a warning as Cloud opens the door to exit.

“ _ Pride is lost; wings stripped away, the end is nigh.” _

Neither Cloud nor Sephiroth speak until they’re in the truck, Masamune laying across the backseat with the Fusion blade. Cloud doesn’t even start the motor yet, looking through the dusty windows with a nearly  _ baffled _ look on his face.

“...We’re really not gonna do anything about him?”

Sephiroth gives a minute shake of his head, rolling his window up and pulling his hair to lay over his shoulder. “Why should we? He’s after Deepground. Shouldn’t we let him do our dirty work?”

Cloud rights himself in his seat as he turns the key, the truck rumbling to life as he starts to drive back for the hotel. “I guess… Doesn’t feel right, though. I feel like he was lying.”

“If he was, we can deal with him later. That is, if his own ideals don’t kill him first. I have the idea that your wanting to kill him is derived from that petty jab about Za--”

“Don’t say his name.”

Sephiroth raises a brow, Cloud’s gloves squealing with tightness on the wheel as his eyes stare so hard at the road, he might as well have had lasers shooting out of them.

But Sephiroth relents, leaning back against his seat. “...You need to talk about it sometime.”

Cloud rolls down Sephiroth’s window just to get him to shut up, blinding the former general as he fights with wild silver locks.

The girls haven’t noticed their absent neighbors, or if they have, they’ve already gone to sleep, as their lights are out and door shut tight. Sephiroth returns the ice materia to Cloud when they get into their own room, drawing Masamune and fetching a rag from the bathroom to do the best cleaning job he can without polish.

Cloud sits on his bed, back to the wall, legs folded, with his Fusion blade across his lap.

Sephiroth lets him sit like this for quite some time before he starts noticing that his blinks are getting longer and heavier, exhaustion winning out as Sephiroth dutifully clears his blade of dried blood.

“If I had wanted to kill someone in the middle of the night, don’t you think I would have done it already?”

Cloud flinches himself back to full consciousness, leather creaking as he tightens his grip on his sword. “Yeah, well now you have a sword.”

Sephiroth scoffs, setting the rag aside as he inspects his blade for any other damage. “As if there isn’t an arsenal in your home, not to mention knives in the kitchen or the ax you use to chop wood for that old stove.”

Cloud tenses, though when Sephiroth dares him to eye contact, he looks down. 

“I’m going to bed,” he announces, standing to step out of his leathers, hanging the coat over the bathroom door again, boots beside it. He can feel Cloud’s eyes on him as he moves about the small room, opting to leave the little lamp on the table on to spread a warm yellow glow. “Feel free to keep watch all night. We’re to get a wake-up call.”

He tucks himself beneath the stiff sheets of his rented bed, turning his back to Cloud in a small sign of  _ trust _ as he allows sleep to take him.

It isn’t Cloud or the innkeep that wakes him in the morning, but Tifa, knocking so hard that it sounds like their door is about to break in. 

Sephiroth wakes with a huff of a sigh, looking over to see Cloud sound asleep, slouched against the wall in the same position Sephiroth had seen him in before bed, though now there’s a small bit of dried drool at the corner of his parted lips.

He strides over to open the door, Tifa nearly hitting him in the chest when her knocks are disrupted. And her face is  _ stern _ , looking over Sephiroth’s shoulder to see Cloud starting to wake.

“We need to leave, beauty sleepers. C’mon. The keep forgot to wake us.” There’s an insult there about the elderly woman, but she doesn’t voice it. Sephiroth nearly laughs.

Aerith stands further down the hall, in a borrowed pair of Tifa’s cargo shorts and a low-cut top that doesn’t flatter her figure. She holds the straps of her backpack tightly, staff tied to the side of it, looking falsely prepared. She manages a quick glance at Sephiroth before she speaks up, voice quiet as Sephiroth and Cloud gather their things.

“Sephiroth, I… I think we need to talk, now.”

Tifa and Cloud both look a little hesitant to leave the two of them alone, but they stand down when Aerith gives them a look that could burn, heading down the hall to get a quick takeout breakfast and double-check their tickets for the ferry.

Aerith steps into the room, closing the door behind her as Sephiroth steps back, Masamune at his hip as his fists hang limply at his sides.

She can’t look at him. Her summertime eyes are strictly focused on the dull brown carpet.

“...I know I’ve been dancing around it, but we really need to talk about what happened in Deepground.”

“We do,” he agrees, gesturing for her to sit on the edge of the neatly made bed (he hates to leave places in a  _ mess _ ) as he stands at attention for what she needs to say.

She sits, expelling a heavy exhale as she does so. Her ankles cross, arms folding over her stomach as she tries to make herself  _ small _ , like a mouse trying not to be spotted. Her eyes seem to roam everywhere but Sephiroth’s gaze, but she finally settles for staring hard at the X formed by the straps of his leathers.

And he waits.

“...I don’t like seeing you kill people,” she whispers. “I don’t like seeing  _ anyone _ kill someone else… I can feel it when their souls leave their bodies. I can  _ feel _ when someone enters the Lifestream… and they do it all the time. I know I can’t stop death, but… there are alternatives.”

He blinks, one hand resting loosely on Masamune. “Are you saying not to kill JENOVA?”

Aerith’s head jerks up, that storm reaching a fever pitch as she catches the cool jade of Sephiroth’s eyes. “No! No, I’m not saying that! I’m just saying that I didn’t kill you because of what you did! I kissed you because I--”

And she cuts herself off, biting her lip savagely as she looks down and away, eyes wide and  _ frightened _ .

Sephiroth is silent. He  _ waits _ .

“...I’ve just been lonely,” she whispers, drawing her feet out of her boots to plant them on the bed, holding her knees to her chin. “Zack… He passed on in that last battle. And Cloud… he has Tifa now, and they’re so  _ good _ for each other. I just… I wanted that. I  _ have _ wanted that, ever since I was a little girl.” She smiles, though it’s  _ sad _ , her eyes growing damp as she stares at Sephiroth’s boots. “I wanted to meet a man that would sweep me off my feet. To fight and defend for me… Silly, I know.”

Sephiroth sighs quietly, leaning back against the wall. He watches Aerith fidget, watches her blink rapidly to fend off tears. “Not silly. I used to entertain the idea of having a wife when I was a teenager, though it would be improbable for me. No one would want to be with a monster. No one wants to be with someone with  _ blood _ on their hands.”

Aerith is shaking her head, feet lowering to the ground as she stands, barefoot, so small before him. “I’ve always thought you were… beautiful,” she confesses, eyes getting lost in the details of his face. Long lashes, glowing eyes, down to his sharp jaw, the Cupid’s bow in his lips, the definition of his neck down to his collarbones… “Almost like an angel. Carved from porcelain...”

He frowns, cornered yet wanting to  _ flee _ . How often had he heard himself called a One-Winged Angel? Fallen and turned to a  _ demon _ … “I was made to be attractive. To better earn trust.”

She  _ pouts _ , that storm swirling faster and faster until those hands, so warm and smooth and soft, cup his jaw and force him to look at stormy green.

“I think you’re beautiful. And I’m determined to find out what kind of man lives behind those eyes. I  _ know  _ you’re not cruel, and I know you don’t enjoy spilling blood as much as you think you do. I want to find out who the  _ real _ Sephiroth is…”

Those hands leave his face as she steps back, fetching her boots to pull them back on.

“I guess I’m just gonna have to stick around and see when I can meet him, though.”

Sephiroth is silent,  _ stunned _ , as she leaves the room, leaving the door open for him to follow. Her words struck deep, sparking more questions of his identity… Who is he,  _ why _ is he who he is? Does blood make the man? Do genes and cells make the man? Or do  _ actions _ define him?

Perhaps he ought to listen to Aerith. She seems to know more about him than he knows himself.

But when he steps out of his room, one might spot a small  _ grin _ on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :3c
> 
> Next chapter: Cloud is very, _very_ seasick, Tifa hoards granola bars, and how much does Sephiroth weigh? (Enough to break the ice)


	12. CORNERED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been waaaay too long, and I apologize for that! I've been moving, getting a new cat, and transferring to a new job. But all of that is over now, so hopefully my fics will start updating more.
> 
> In this chapter: Unhappy chocobos, Sephiroth in pink, and lots of fire.

Why is there defining length of time to measure a moment?

Is a moment the time it takes for eyelids to close, refresh, and reopen in a blink? Or is it the time from waking in the morning to sleeping at night? Could it be the time it takes for a man to be born and die? 

Sephiroth has missed many a moment, and he knows this. Whether it be that his eyes were closed in the midst of a blink, or he had never fully woken, he has missed moments in his cycle of birth, death, and cursed resurrection.

He missed the moments of childhood; the moments that he hadn’t even known he was missing until he was twenty-something and Angeal was teasing Genesis about their time as children. He had missed the moments of normal life as a man, busy being constantly sculpted and molded to be ShinRa’s Finest. He had missed out on the moments of cadets loudly drinking and making bets on pool or cards. He had missed the moments of  _ normalcy _ .

But perhaps, most importantly, he had missed the moments that return to him in the form of  _ nightmares _ . Those moments that wake him in a cold sweat, in a startle...

(Ironic, isn’t it, that the Nightmare himself has bad dreams?)

Some of these nightmares have the audacity to haunt him while he is perfectly awake and aware, as he is right now, sitting in the back of the trunk bound for the ferry docks with a mountain of luggage between himself and Aerith.

It starts innocently enough. Just a thought following what Aerith had told him; wondering who the  _ real _ Sephiroth is. He’s wondering if it’s the boy in the labs with a white gown and needles and tubes poking holes in his paper-thin skin. He wonders if it’s the stoic teenager studying advanced battle strategy and rising quickly through the ranks with excelled knowledge and strength…

But then he thinks about the man that broke in the Nibelheim reactor.

While he knows that he is sitting in an old pickup truck, arms loosely folded over his stomach as his knees ache from how crowded he is, watching the dreary gray sky… he suddenly  _ isn’t _ anymore.

He is inside of a rock  _ crater  _ that runs miles up either side, illuminated only by glowing blue crystal. It nearly reminds him of the cave that holds his mother, but the air  _ reeks _ of mako. The source is found beneath the rock he stands on, pure  _ lifestream _ trickling through the cracks. Yet instead of a peace he may find in it all, he feels a bitter anger and resentment; a sick  _ greed _ that makes him smile despite the blood on his leathers and the chips in Masamune’s blade.

**_You are a God._ **

And he believes it. He hoists Black Materia, a wicked grin as he summons Meteor, watching the skies beyond this glowing crater darken and swirl with the power.

And he feels his body breaking and twisting and  _ disfiguring _ , suddenly suspended in midair by a single wing, facing down a blond with a sword and friends at his sides. And he feels so endlessly powerful that he loses himself, and he knows that he should never underestimate the enemy and the power of the gods is not for man to take--

He is sitting in an old pickup truck, arms loosely folded over his stomach as his knees ache from how crowded he is, watching the dreary gray sky as a massive  _ pain _ fires through his entire body, from skull to toes, as if someone has chopped a blade clean through him.

And the moment is over. The muted radio still reads the same time. Tifa is still staring out of the windshield, hands tight on the wheel. Cloud is still sitting beside her, digging through a small bag in search of something. Aerith is curled up in her seat, forehead against the window as her hand loosely curls around her staff.

“Did you forget them?” Tifa asks, shattering the silence and jarring Sephiroth back to such a mundane reality that he finds himself wondering which is the truth.

Cloud grumbles something incoherent and continues digging.

Sephiroth looks back out the window at the swirling clouds that remind him of a false god.

* * *

Cloud Strife forgot to pack his motion sickness medication.

This fact would have been rather  _ comedic _ to the former general; to see Cloud Strife green in the face and clinging to a metal handrail as their little ferry battles an unexpectedly  _ stormy _ passage. But thrice expelling his empty stomach into the churning tide seems to be enough, and Tifa orders him below deck to sleep or otherwise distract himself from the rocking of the ship.

And it’s in the open lower deck that Sephiroth finds him seated among the rows of window seats for the tourist season with his knees pressed to the back of the seat in front of him and his arms crossed tightly over his stomach as if he can physically settle it.

When Sephiroth sits beside him, however, he only turns to give him a sickly glare.

“What?”

The former general merely raises a brow at his hostility, though he doesn’t know what else to expect by now. He had thought maybe his seasickness had calmed him… though apparently  _ not _ . It seems to have just made him all the more irritable.

“This whole deck is empty. Sit somewhere else.”

Sephiroth looks forward, out to the rows of cheaply upholstered seats and to the doors that lead to the upper deck, where the women are in a higher cabin. Cloud seems to calm when those eyes are no longer on him, or perhaps it’s the fact that he’s fighting down more bile when he drops his head and takes a deep inhale.

“...I need to ask you something, Cloud.”

Cloud doesn’t answer for a moment, clearly somewhere else in his suffering, but when he does, he addresses his knees. “What?” he repeats, miserably.

“Genesis had brought him up, and you had reacted oddly… Zack Fair?”

The name immediately changes the atmosphere. Cloud goes still, sharp glare melting into a look of mourning not properly finished. His fingers curl into his sweater, pale and white-knuckled. He swallows several times, and when he speaks, his voice is nearly a whisper.

“Why do you care?”

Sephiroth turns to look at him, though in general surprise. After the desertians of both Genesis and Angeal, Sephiroth and Zack had been the only First Class SOLDIERs left to deal with the mess they had left behind. While Sephiroth never quite viewed them on equal grounds, he did, at the very least, like to think Zack was a  _ friend _ … Someone to talk to, and fill the empty spaces his former friends had left behind.

Though, perhaps it was foolish to ever consider  _ anyone _ to be a friend. They all left him, in the end.

“...I never learned what happened to him.”

Cloud’s jaw tenses, eyes far away as he stares at the back of the seat in front of him. Sephiroth doesn’t actually think he’s going to get an answer, already shifting to get up. But just as he stands, Cloud speaks, voice muffled by emotion that hasn’t had the time to  _ heal _ .

“He died. Just outside of Midgar… ShinRa gunned him down. I couldn’t… help. I was out of it… I got mako poisoning in Nibelheim, I think. We were so close, but…”

He swallows thickly, turning to look out the window to the churning waterline.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone now.”

Sephiroth cants his head, minutely familiar with the sense of  _ grief _ . Of being told that Angeal had been killed… Though he hadn’t  _ witnessed _ it. He’s sure that Cloud suffers from a completely different breed of demon.

“...Aerith told me that she spoke to him in the lifes--”

“He’s  _ gone _ ,” Cloud cuts across sharply, forehead making a small  _ thud _ as he presses it to the glass to cool his overheated skin. “He’s gone, and he can’t come back. Instead, I get stuck with  _ you _ , again.”

“I didn’t ask for her to bring me back.”

“Just shut up,” he mutters, fingers fisted even  _ harder _ in the cable knit of his shirt. “ _ No one _ asked for you to come back. You’re like a plague. We find a cure, but you just come back again and again.”

Sephiroth does not linger, though he finds the answer… disturbing. He knows that ShinRa’s orders were to kill deserters, but to chase Zack all the way to the wastes outside of Midgar? Why not just wait for him to return on his own?

But he had attacked Zack in the reactor. He has no right to mourn him, does he?

He’s just a  _ plague _ , after all.

Returning above deck shows him that the sky has decided to finally open up to  _ hail _ , the cold winds throwing pebble-sized pieces that hit loudly against the ship and rebound off of his leathers. He feels more than his fair share pelt him on the head, but he ignores it, as he already has a headache anyway, lingering from the incident in the truck and now from thoughts about a man long dead.

He climbs the stairs to the second level to see Aerith and Tifa quietly looking over a map, Tifa looking up at him with thinly veiled suspicion within her carmine eyes. Not quite as potent as before, but still unnerving.

“...Well, it doesn’t look like he puked on you,” Aerith says lightly, Tifa exhaling deeply as she sits back on the floor where they’re gathered.

“He probably wanted to. I know I would have.”

Sephiroth ignores Tifa’s jab, standing over her to view the map. He knows they should be reaching shore soon, but they’re going to need to take the weather into consideration.

Aerith is already a step ahead, bundled in a winter jacket that rather makes her look like a marshmallow, and thick pants with knitted fur warmers covering the seam between pants and boots. Mittens and a hat sit to her side with her staff, which has a scarf tied around it.

“...Don’t you want to bundle up?” Aerith asks softly, gesturing to the opened black bag. “It’s going to be real cold. The captain said he wouldn’t be surprised if there was a blizzard.”

Sephiroth shrugs, watching Tifa stand to cross over to the bag and fish out her own coat, already in a long sleeved sweatshirt that near-matches Cloud’s. The brawler looks at him in confusion, slipping on the coat and grabbing her hair to tie back and stuff into a hat.

“Extreme temperatures have little effect on me,” he answers, watching Tifa roll her eyes as she bundles up. “I’ll be fine.”

Aerith doesn’t look convinced, standing up as she tucks her braid down the back of her coat. “Even if the temperature doesn’t bother you, what about the wind? You’ve got the longest hair out of all of us. At least let me braid it so you don’t blind yourself.”

Tifa smirks a bit, rolling up the map. “I’d love to see him in pigtails…”

Sephiroth shoots her a look as Aerith sighs, gesturing for him to turn around.

“Come on. We’ll be ashore soon, and we still have Cloud to tend to.”

Sephiroth doesn’t really  _ like _ the idea of someone else touching his hair. It’s always been a bit of pride for him. To run from Hojo when it was his time for a trim, and grow it out on his own. A sign of the only  _ freedom _ he really had… To let it grow long and elegant, colorless yet  _ bold _ . He doesn’t want anyone to touch it.

Then again, this is  _ Aerith _ , and he slips so easily into the submissive to her orders, turning his back to her.

There’s a moment of pause, Tifa  _ giggling _ .

“Um… could you sit down? I can’t… reach.”

He moves to one of the seats as Tifa watches, half amused and half in  _ awe _ as Aerith takes control of this man and quietly plaits his hair in a tight braid to keep it from flying in the sharp winds. 

Her hands take their time, fingers combing through silk-soft hair, so fine and smooth on her calloused hands. Sephiroth has half a mind to tell her to  _ hurry _ , that they haven’t the time for this, but a soft whisper touches his ears, her breath warm.

“Your hair is so beautiful… I’m a little jealous.”

Sephiroth says nothing, head bowing to permit her as she nears the end of his mane. He doesn’t understand why she would think such a thing, when the strands are uncolored and  _ alien _ , though… it certainly doesn’t  _ hurt  _ the pride he already has in his hair.

Though when she reaches the end, she pauses, unsure what to tie it off with. So she pinches the end of the tail with her fingers and pulls out her own ribbon, worn and faded in its color, to tie tightly.

“...There.”

He half expects Tifa to  _ giggle _ again at the decoration, though she says nothing, putting their pack of food and water on her back as she picks up the bag of clothes. Sephiroth stands to watch Aerith quickly turn to gather her own things, but he notices that she looks so oddly  _ bare _ without the wilting pink in her hair…

The captain comes over a tinny loudspeaker to announce they’re about to arrive, and Tifa steps out into the hail and snow to fetch Cloud, Aerith right behind her as Sephiroth stands on the deck to watch the land grow closer. 

The weather is  _ terrible _ when they make port, with the hail pelting their small group and the snow blinding any distance they may have been able to see. Tifa pays the captain double on account of the dangerous weather, and he’s quick to head to the inn for shelter as their group gathers under the overhanging of the port’s office to discuss what to do next.

“We have most of the day left,” Cloud announces, his voice stronger and face colored now that he’s on solid land. “We should start heading north now.”

Tifa frowns, gloved hands curled around the straps of her backpack. “Should we stop for rest? There’s nothing past here. We should stop and wait for the storm to pass.”

“There are caves,” Cloud cuts across. “And the longer we wait, the worse this storm is going to get. You saw the news this morning. The storm cell’s just spinning in place.”

Aerith clutches her staff, huddled close to Tifa’s side as she looks to Sephiroth for his opinion.

“...Cloud is right. We have to move now. Once we get to the mountains, there are plenty of caves to hide in.”

Tifa opens her mouth to argue, or perhaps to show her surprise that they’ve agreed on something,  _ again _ , but Cloud speaks instead.

“Then it’s settled. Let’s go.”

Their truck remains on the other side of the water, as there are no roads that lead beyond the town that mostly consists of Icicle Inn. After stopping into a shop to stock up on fresh materia and a few potions to stash away in Tifa’s backpack in place of the clothes they now have on their backs, they decide that if they can’t find chocobos or some other off-roading way to get there, they’ll need to go on foot in sub-zero temperatures.

But, thankfully, luck appears to be on their side.

They find a small chocobo ranch just outside of town, all of the birds thick with down and long feathers to beat the cold, even down growing on their toes. The owner is so surprised that someone would want to rent them  _ now _ that he gives them a discount, certain that the birds would flee back to his ranch before they even reached the mountains.

“Ya’ll know where you’re goin’? That’s no-man’s land up there,” he warns, unlocking four stalls to fetch the chocobos within. “And in the middle of a blizzard, no less…” The old man shakes his head, handing the reins of the final chocobo to Sephiroth, looking up into his eyes for a long moment.

“...Last time I saw you up here, you threatened me with that sword there to give y’a mount.”

Sephiroth doesn’t remember this accusation, and it takes him a moment to recover. He wonders if the flashback of a god-like puppet of himself had been the one to do it, or if the man is just confused, thinking of the remnants that came through before.

Either way, he feels an odd  _ guilt _ at the thought of drawing a blade on such a small old man.

Sephiroth bows his head, taking the reins dutifully. “I apologize.”

The old man scoffs, shaking his head again as he begins to gather the hay from the empty stalls to distribute to keep his flock warm. “I know who t’ blame if I don’t get my birds back. Now git, before the daylight’s gone.”

No one speaks on the old man’s memory, though Cloud and Tifa just look that much more  _ untrusting _ of him. Cloud decides to lead them, in light of this, Tifa bringing up the rear as the chocobos  _ kweh _ their displeasure before following guidance towards the mountains.

Their plans are up in the air, now. They know that they need to get to the Northern Crater, but what they find there and what they’ll do is still a shroud of  _ what if _ . What if JENOVA isn’t there? What if she is? What if there are more remnants? What if it’s just another entrance to Deepground? Will there be a battle? Against whom?

But the questions are useless kindling for anxiety. They will get their answers when they arrive, and no sooner. Even so, no one speaks, for fear of those anxieties buzzing around them… Though, once they clear the town, they have another problem. 

Everything is  _ white _ .

Their map is useless without a compass that isn’t thrown haywire from the storm like the scratched-up one Cloud had brought along. The only thing keeping them pointed in a direction they hope is  _ straight _ is Aerith’s uneasiness. She announces that the Planet hasn’t talked to her since they entered the storm, yet the further north they get, the more  _ ill _ she looks.

But as they clump together to keep warmth and sight among themselves, Sephiroth breaks off to walk ahead.

He’s loathe to admit it, but he  _ remembers _ the way.

The rest of the party follows him, chobobos three abreast to keep Aerith between them like guards with Sephiroth’s braid whipping in front of them.

At some point, the wind rips away the ribbon holding it all together, and Aerith nearly stops to retrieve it before Cloud nudges her back on her chocobo and they continue.

No one speaks, partly because the wind is as loud as thunder in their ears and partly because there’s nothing to say, until the light begins to get dim with the onset of  _ night _ . And it’s Tifa that speaks up, needing to shout over the wind as Sephiroth’s hair is torn from its braid slowly until it blends in with the streaking snow.

“We need to stop for the night. It’s going to get colder at night.”

Cloud and Aerith both agree, and Cloud points to the faintest outcropping of a cliff face through the snow. They redirect towards it, thankful to find a  _ cave _ , and the chocobos  _ kweh _ as they’re finally out of the wind.

They dismount, the birds immediately huddling to each other for warmth as they move deep enough in the cave to avoid the gusts of snow. Tifa drops to her knees with her bag to look for something to start a fire with but, naturally, that’s the one thing they had  _ forgotten _ .

“Here,” Cloud murmurs, his voice bouncing back from uneven cavern walls. It sounds alien to their ears, having been used to the boister of the storm that is now howling harmlessly outside.

Cloud joins Tifa on the ground, popping a ball of materia from his sword. It glows red as he sets it on the ground, and little flames begin to dance around it as an impromptu fire. Aerith settles on the ground beside it, staff over her knees, and channels it stronger, so the flames roar a foot high, casting flickering shadows on the walls and heat in their circle as Cloud and Tifa unpack bedrolls.

They get four of them laid out in a square around the fire before Cloud pauses, standing up straight and looking around their dim shelter for a moment before turning back to Aerith, who has now moved to sit on her bedroll as she quietly tends their fire.

“Where’s Sephiroth?”

The Cetra looks up in surprise, cold-chapped lips parting as she, too, looks around for silver hair and black leathers. He’s like a shadow, sure, but this time he’s vanished completely.

“...I don’t know,” she says quietly, in awe. And it takes a moment for Tifa and Cloud to pick up on her confusion, remembering the other day when Aerith had announced she could  _ feel _ his presence.

“He came in with us,” Tifa recalls, looking over to the chocobos that are still clustered, yet have drifted closer to the fire. “His bird is still here.”

Cloud reaches a gloved hand for his sword. “I’ll find him.”

Aerith stands, clutching her staff in her wool mittens. “You can’t go out by yourself in that storm… You could get lost. Even if we went together, we might not find our way back… Let’s just rest. He’ll come back.”

Cloud’s eyes narrow, though he relaxes, knowing she’s right about being  _ lost _ . “We’re close to the Crater. How do we know he hasn’t gone to Jenova? If you can’t sense him, who knows where he could be by now.”

She frowns, looking at the entrance to the cave, where the light has turned dark gray and sickly. 

Tifa speaks up, gently tugging Cloud until he sits on his bedroll beside her. “Worrying about what he’s doing won’t solve anything. We’ll just wait.”

And wait they do.

Tifa digs food from her pack and they ration it among themselves, setting aside Sephiroth’s portion atop his bedroll for when he returns. It’s not the  _ best _ meal-- four of many granola bars and peanut butter sandwiches --but it’s better than nothing.

They finish eating and passing around a canteen of water, and Sephiroth is still missing.

Aerith stands as Tifa reclines to sleep, Cloud sitting by her feet to keep the fire steady, wearily. They both look up at her, and she spares them a small smile.

“I’m going to see if there’s any trees near the mouth of the cave. We need to find something to burn… We can’t keep it up through the night like this.”

“I’ll go with you,” Cloud offers, and Tifa takes over keeping the fire alight. He takes his sword and Aerith her staff, stepping carefully through the dark. One of the materia within Aerith’s staff begins to glow, her own fire materia, to provide them orangeish light. 

The storm is even  _ crueller _ now, and Aerith nearly topples over with the force of the wind. Snow stings at their exposed faces, but they act quickly, finding a sagging pine and snapping off branches that had long since died in the harsh environment. They return, their footprints already recovered in snow, but they only just get inside of the cavern’s crooked mouth when the wind suddenly picks up strength, gusting their backs to  _ shove _ them inside.

Aerith stumbles and falls, branches scattering, and Cloud barely manages to catch himself on an old stalagmite of ice that cracks under his weight. Tifa calls for them to ask if they’re alright, but before Aerith can finish collecting her fallen branches and Cloud can right himself, the wind takes form.

Black hands grab at Cloud’s back, pulling him up only to slam him down against the hard floor. He reaches for his sword, but he’s too late, a boot crushing down on his wrist to pin it as the other shoots out to block a blade with the buckler on his wrist.

The light within the cave goes out as Tifa runs to them, but Aerith is quick to set fire to their damp twigs to make up for it. 

Cloud manages to fight his assailant off, scrambling to his feet and drawing the Fusion sword in a practiced motion. Tifa stands just behind him, a hand on his back for support as her gloved hands curl into fists.

They don’t really need the light to see the glowing mako eyes narrowed at them.

“Sephiroth!” Aerith gasps, appalled at his state. He’s wielding his Masmune, which is streaked with blood, and his eyes are no more than narrow  _ slits _ that glow with toxic power.

But she can tell just by looking at him… that this isn’t him.

It’s  _ her _ .

Though, Tifa and Cloud have little time to notice that. He attacks again, but this time draws from the fire Aerith has laid. The flames raise to a wall to separate the Cetra from the fight, and she calls out his name again, desperate to reach him.

Swords exchange blows, Cloud pushing Sephiroth further and further back into the cold. Tifa stays close, ready in a moment to step in, but the exhaustion from keeping a materia fire roaring is taking its toll on them both.

Sephiroth sidesteps Cloud’s next swing, and the Fusion sword finds itself lodged within another stalagmite. The ice slices loose, yet the mineral within is too thick for the blade to pierce all the way through. And in the split second of Cloud planting his foot against it to pull it free, Sephiroth has already stepped forward, and his sword pierces straight through that chest.

Two things happen so rapidly then that Aerith can barely keep track as she manages to tame Sephiroth’s fire and step through. She sees the blade cut through layers of winter clothes and hears Cloud  _ gasp _ at the pain, Tifa going  _ pale _ . But Sephiroth turns and  _ throws _ Cloud from the end of it like discarded trash, and he lands with a dull  _ whump _ in the snow that is barely heard over the wind. Tifa then rushes him, trying to mask her  _ terror _ into anger, yet Sephiroth sees clean through it. She rushes to kick him, landing a solid hit in his stomach before she moves to kick under his chin, but he’s  _ fast _ . Masamune flashes and his other hand moves to grab her ankle, keeping her awkwardly balanced on one foot with a bloody blade at her throat.

“Let  _ go _ ,” she snarls, breaths heaving fast as she grabs at the uneven wall for support. Aerith quickly casts a heal Cloud’s way, praying it hits home, before she casts a barrier around Tifa and prepares to strike Sephiroth down with a blast of fire.

But he does not grin. He does not speak, and he does not hesitate like he usually would in battle just to rub things in. No, he’s on set to  _ kill _ right now, twisting Tifa’s ankle as Masamune moves to strike--

Tifa falls, the  _ snap _ of a bone echoing sickly in the cavern as she cries out in pain. Masamune slices into Aerith’s staff, though magic alone is keeping it from being cut in half. 

The storm outside is nothing compared to the one roaring in those green eyes.

The fire turns white with heat and rushes Sephiroth, pushing him out into the snow. The roots of the dead pine suddenly come to life, pushing out from under the inches of white power like snakes, wrapping around wrists that are reaching for a knocked away blade. But Sephiroth struggles, eyes alight with  _ fury _ as the vines tighten and pull him down onto his back, snow crunching and icy sleet cracking under his weight.

Aerith moves to stand over him, lowering the tip of her staff down to a pale, furrowed forehead…

And Sephiroth goes limp just as the storm stops, as if someone had flipped a switch.

There’s a terrifying moment of absolute  _ silence _ before the world seems to rush back to life. The fire crackles weakly on the branches, Tifa is breathing harshly through her teeth in pain, Cloud is crunching snow as he struggles to get up, and the chocobos are murring with fear within the depths of the cave.

And Sephiroth’s eyes are open, no longer glowing, looking up at the face of the Cetra with parted lips and absolute  _ confusion _ .

But she doesn’t stop to wait for him to come around. She’s quick to get to Cloud, to where the snow is stained red beneath him. She helps him up and uses her fading energy to patch up the old scar, and Cloud mutters some attempt at  _ humor _ .

“If I had a dollar every time he did that to me… I’d only have three, but… it’s weird it’s happened three times.”

Aerith affords him a tense smile before she helps him up, both of them mutually leaning against each other for support as they reenter the cave. A broken bone is much harder to heal than a cut, so Cloud sits beside Tifa to keep her calm while Aerith packs snow around her swollen ankle to help relax it as she begins to fashion a splint out of half-charred branches and her own scarf.

The three of them are silent, no one looking back at the fallen angel in the snow, but Cloud and Tifa both look  _ deeply _ shaken.

Cloud speaks, keeping his voice low. It sounds  _ odd _ to speak at regular levels now that the roar of the storm is completely gone. It seems too quiet, and he doesn’t want to shatter it.

“That’s going to get worse the closer we get to Jenova, isn’t it?”

Aerith’s jaw is set firm as she finishes wrapping Tifa’s ankle, picking up a broken shard of the icy stalagmite to continue cooling the swollen injury, green magic fusing through it to at least take away the pain.

She can close wounds, but even she can’t mend  _ bone _ .

“...Probably. I thought… I thought I had taught him how to fight it off.”

Neither Tifa nor Cloud say anything, but they share a cold look of agreement. Taking Sephiroth along was a mistake, but accompanying was not. If they hadn’t been there, who knows what Sephiroth would have done to Aerith. Neither of them want to leave her alone with him.

Though, Tifa is in no shape to fight or walk. She could ride her chocobo, but… a broken ankle will only get worse the longer it’s left without proper care. Cloud feels lightheaded and has a throbbing pulse of pain in the center of his chest, though he can  _ manage _ … It’s happened twice before. A third time won’t kill him, right?

But Aerith can tell what they’re thinking, and she moves to crouch, gesturing for Tifa to put her arm around her shoulders as a crutch as she speaks, voice echoing off of the walls to make it seem less  _ terse _ than it is.

“It wasn’t him. It was Jenova.”

Cloud’s eyes narrow, though his face softens with concern when Tifa can’t so much as touch her toes to the ground without pain shooting up her leg. He takes over Aerith’s position, though does one better, swinging Tifa up into his arms with the Fusion Sword on his back.

“You can excuse him all you want, but Sephiroth did this with his own hands.”

Aerith’s lips part to defend, though she deflates, the storm in her eyes finally fizzling out, just as the one outside had. She knows that she can  _ trust _ Sephiroth, but… Her trust has led to this; to Tifa’s broken ankle and Cloud nearly being killed. She’s given him the benefit of the doubt, knowing that the  _ real _ Sephiroth is still alive, still in there…

And yet, there’s no way to  _ prove _ that feeling. That feeling that the Planet timidly gives her, that perhaps Sephiroth is more than he seems. Perhaps he really  _ does _ want atonement, to proceed with life as what should have been his normal.

But he was trained from birth to be a monster. That’s a lot to undo, even for her.

Cloud carries Tifa away while Aerith is stuck in her thoughts, lying her on her sleeping bag before he returns to Aerith, offering her a hand. She looks pale in the dying firelight, as result of how much energy she’s used… Though, maybe resulting from her increasingly dark thoughts.

When she had placed her staff to Sephiroth’s temple, it had been like sticking it in oil. Slick, dark, and  _ shapeless _ , despite the way those eyes had shined in their hatred. It had taken her a moment just to pierce through it enough to find Sephiroth, to send him enough light to regain himself…

She turns away from Cloud, and he withdraws his hand, watching her quietly. She’s leaning heavily on her staff to keep her balance, and when she finally faces the mouth of the cave, he watches as she nearly falls.

Four dead roots lay heavily in the snow, around a large disruption where a man had laid. There are no signs of footprints leading away, but as Aerith takes a small step into the packed powder, a black feather is ripped away by the wind.

Gone in a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm cruel, I know.
> 
> Next chapter: Frostbite, fire burns, and Sephiroth is a strong independent woman who don't need no man.


	13. ALONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I.... I don't even have a valid excuse for how late this is. It's been done since mid-August and I just... forgot....  
> Also I'm sorry for the choppiness, but I liked how it read instead of weird transitions
> 
> In this chapter: Girl talk, a family reunion, and an inn that could use an inspection

There is peace in loneliness. There is a delicate beauty in being all by one’s self, alone but to thoughts and the surrounding world. And here, stepping surely through ankle-deep snow balanced on thick sheets of glacier ice with the moon and abruptly cleared sky making the world glow, there is peace.

There is peace, in the voice that is whispering gentle nothings to drive leather boots to take another step. And another. And another.

**You will only hurt them, if you stay.**

Somewhere, the sound of an elemental woman twisted by pollution to a  _ monster _ cries out, yet does not approach the ghost of a man trespassing her land. It sounds mournful. Lonely.

Perhaps it’s just a blissful song, too easily misunderstood.

Masamune is a weightless presence on his hip, tip cutting and dragging through the snow. Most of the blood has been wiped clear this way, leaving a trail of marching footprints and blood in his wake. Footprints that the wind is quick to cover, the storm a friend in helping his journey, pushing his back when his steps slow. A black wing has torn through his leathers, deadened feathers being blown away in a morbid trail of breadcrumbs.

**You belong with me. You always have.**

The flatness of the glacier breaks to a steep slope, one that would require training and proper gear to scale. But that wing pumps against air that lifts him, and he makes it to the top to peer down into a deep darkness that even the moon and all of its stars cannot shed light on.

It is here that he hesitates. His head hurts, a gloved hand raising to press his forehead as if he can push the agony out. A sick feeling churns his stomach, and as the wind pushes at him, his heels dig in, refusing to topple down.

**I’m the only one that’s ever loved you.**

A sharp exhale puffs a cloud in front of his dry lips, eyes shutting tight as the headache ramps up in its agony.

**I’m the only one that ever will.**

That pain turns to dizziness, and a foot moves to step down into the mouth of the crater. To begin the long descent to an inky blackness that seems to  _ pulse _ out towards him. Black water rising in tide to suck him in.

**You’re a monster to them, Sephiroth. You always will be.**

* * *

The morning does not see the trio any better. Aerith has hardly gotten any sleep, wrapped in an unzipped sleeping bag like a blanket and staring at a fire that she’s finally been able to build without materia. Tifa stays lying down while Cloud holds her ankle on his lap, carefully unwrapping the improvised bandaging to inspect the bruising and test for any broken bones.

No one speaks. No one  _ wants _ to.

The storm outside has receded without a trace, though a thin layer of powder covers up the evidence from the night’s events. Birds are chirping in the dead pine outside, and the four chocobos croon to each other as they doze and preen each other’s feathers.

Aerith has been trying to reach Sephiroth all night, but her mind is muddled. The Planet is silent, though its discomfort has grown to the point where she feels nauseous, powers weak. She knows that it’s nothing  _ good _ , and her worry for Sephiroth is second only to her worry of their small party.

Cloud looks alright, she supposes, but she knows he has to see a proper doctor. Her powers are not strong enough to have fixed anything other than the parting of skin, and she fears what invisible damage may have been dealt. He still looks  _ pale _ , though it’s hard to tell if it’s pain or concern for the way Tifa sharply inhales when he touches her ankle in a specific spot.

“...It’s broken,” he states grimly, moving to replace the splint.

Aerith lowers her eyes to the flame. She can’t heal  _ bone _ ; they all know that. They have no choice now but to turn back and find a doctor in the village…

Once Tifa is wrapped up again, she bundles back into her bedroll, eyes blankly watching the fire eat up the last of their wood. Cloud moves to get their breakfast; more granola bars and small portioned boxes of raisins. He’s really the only one that  _ eats _ , however, Tifa nibbling on her bar while Aerith plays with her raisins.

The fire begins to die and Cloud places the materia back amongst the blaze to keep the warmth going.

“We should just head back to town. We can’t make the journey as we are,” Cloud says after a long moment, prodding the burnt sticks with his fingers to try to give the dying flames more fodder. “Gaia knows where Sephiroth is… We should pull back and gather our strength. I’ll call Vincent from the Inn.”

It’s clear from his words and the dark look in his eyes; he’s assuming this to be a war. Another battle in a never-ending cycle… To kill Sephiroth over and over and  _ over _ again… And he’s so tired from it all. A soldier granted no rest.

But he looks up to Aerith, searching for the silver lining she would always give him with a smile and a soft touch of her hand.

Though now… she just gives a quiet nod, pulling her sleeping bag tighter around herself.

He drops his eyes back to the fire materia.

It’s another several minutes of silence before they move, the materia glowing weakly with Aerith’s remaining power as Cloud moves to prepare their chocobos. They seem rather excited to be getting out of closed quarters, and a few granola bars are broken up to serve their breakfast (mostly the ones Aerith and Tifa didn’t touch) as Cloud gathers their reigns.

Tifa is helped onto her bird with both Cloud and Aerith’s help, Cloud’s strength not entirely recovered after the night. He and Aerith finish packing up, Aerith snuffing out the fire and Cloud popping materia back into his bracer before they step outside, the morning light brilliant where it sparkles on the snow.

As Cloud and Tifa begin to move, Aerith pauses, looking up towards the summit where dark clouds still gather. Sephiroth’s mount chirrups in worry, following her gaze as his feathers ruffle.

“Aerith? Are you coming?”

Quietly, she turns away to follow Cloud’s call, heading back down the mountain to the tiny village at the base. Though, she cannot entirely shake the feeling of being watched.

* * *

Cloud and Tifa are the only patients in Icicle’s tiny village clinic, an elderly doctor with a hunched back tending to Tifa’s ankle to set it properly for a cast. She lacks the technology to check out Cloud, though checked several of his vitals and announced that he’ll be fine, though the pain will likely stay. The scarring tissue on his chest is already so thick that she wasn’t entirely too worried, more urgently tending to Tifa’s purple, crooked ankle. (Though, other than Cloud’s obvious wound, he is nursing a few burns on his fingertips from handling the materia.)

Aerith sits in the waiting room (a wooden bench and a few potted plants, the doctor’s husband filing paperwork sluggishly behind a half wall) flipping uninterestedly through an outdated travel magazine. Even the citizens here seem to know that their population is mostly travelers…

The chocobos had been returned to the rancher, who proudly boasted that he  _ knew _ they’d be back in no time, though seemed a bit suspicious when only three riders came back. Aerith told him that Sephiroth was making a reservation for them at the inn, though the thickness in her voice likely gave her away.

Though in the quiet of the clinic, Cloud and Tifa still back with the doctor, Aerith has far too much time to wonder. Flipping through glossy, faded photos of “exotic” Wutai, “earthy” Nibelhiem, and “tropical” Del Sol, all she can think about is Sephiroth in one of those places. Far away, out of reach. Perhaps last night had merely been a fluke in his mental defences… Perhaps he left out of fear that he would harm the very people that decided to trust him…

The door squeaks open and startles her, the magazine lowering to see Cloud holding the door open as Tifa limps through on outdated wooden crutches. She manages a smile, though, hobbling over to Aerith as the Cetra stands to reach for gil.

The doctor waves her gnarled old hand, a pleasant smile crinkling old crow’s feet.

“No, no, darling. You don’t owe me a cent.” Though, her smile fades, looking at Cloud to quietly chastise. “Just promise me the three of you will be more careful in those mountains. Those elements are fierce, especially during a storm.”

“We don’t plan on going back up,” Tifa says lightly, before she thanks the doctor and Cloud and Aerith help her outside.

They’re able to find a room at the inn with no problem; those stranded by the storm had taken off at dawn, eager to outrun any other complications. Though after the chocobo rentals and the ferry, they’re running low on gil, so they opt for a single room with two double beds within.

Aerith helps Tifa settle in on one of the squeaky old beds amid thick quilts, propping her foot up with the pillows from the other bed to help ease some of the pain. She also casts a small heal to help, sitting down beside the brawler’s hip while Cloud leaves in search of a hot meal.

“You shouldn’t worry about him,” Tifa says after a moment, watching Aerith unbind her braid to run her fingers through it in lieu of a comb. “Not only am I sure Sephiroth can handle himself, but if you haven’t heard any warning from the Planet, he can’t be doing anything bad. Maybe he’s just…” She shrugs, not wanting to say it. Not wanting to say that maybe Sephiroth went back to the afterlife he came from. 

Aerith takes a small breath, holding her well-worn hair tie and sorely missing the faded pink that went along with it. “I’m not worried about him,” she whispers, voice so small and vulnerable. “I’m worried about what he’ll do…”

Tifa makes a small noise of agreement, lying her head against the pillow to look at the ceiling, to find patterns in old water leak stains and the grain of the panels, grateful that the inn has a furnace at the very least.

Aerith begins again to braid her hair, shifting to give Tifa some space if she wants to sleep. The doctor had given her some pain pills, though so long as Aerith is around, she doesn’t really  _ need _ it… Though the entire ordeal has likely left her exhausted.

But instead of sleeping, Tifa speaks up.

“I’ve seen how you look at him.”

Aerith stills, turning her head to eye Tifa with a small  _ guilt _ , though carmine eyes are still on that ceiling.

“You won’t talk about what happened with you two in Deepground. Your ears turn red…” She lifts her head, smirking when she sees the Cetra’s ears beginning to redden again. “They always do that when you try to hide something.”

Aerith huffs quietly, turning away in an attempt to change the subject. “You never told me about you and Cloud getting  _ married _ .”

It’s Tifa’s turn to go red, though her face falls a bit. “Ah, we’re… not. Not officially… Denzel just needed a family, you know? And we were always together, and… it just worked. I guess we’re engaged, if you want to be technical about it...”

Green eyes turn back, seeing the quiet longing in those eyes. “...He’s always been a bit scared of commitment,” she whispers, “though I know he loves you. It’ll work out…”

Tifa nods, seemingly distracted successfully before she sits up on her elbows, eyes narrowed.

“Oooh, I see what you’re doing. You just don’t want to talk about Sephiroth!”

Aerith goes pink in her cheeks, blinking rapidly. “I was just curious! I-It isn’t like  _ that _ !”

“It is,” she teases, grinning like a cat with cream. “Though I have no idea what you see in him, you always  _ have _ liked SOLDIERs, haven’t you?” She pushes herself up to sit, leg still outstretched on the pillow. “Why won’t you tell me what happened in Deepground? I told you what was going on between me and Cloud.”

Aerith swallows, the memory still burned in her mind. Seeing Rosso in bloody pieces, Hojo impaled on his own computers, the dead form of Weiss floating in neon Mako as if he was merely asleep…

The way she had kissed him just because she  _ could _ . Just because she wanted to ensure herself that he wasn’t just a killer. That he could be gentle, too. That he had the capacity to  _ love _ , in such a brutal state.

But that day, she had seen so much  _ pain _ in his eyes. The way Rosso had threatened him had  _ shaken _ him; the way he had been told so many times that he would be defeated rattling him. The proud way he had said that he wasn’t scared of death, yet had delivered it so aggressively to his own father… A father that was nothing more than a  _ professor _ .

There is anger within him, yes, but also so much  _ pain _ .

Pain that he had buried under fluffed confidence… A shield he had built for himself.

“He… killed Hojo, as you know,” she whispers, watching Tifa’s grin fall to one of somber understanding, “but also a Tsviet named Rosso… It was…  _ gruesome _ .” She smiles, a bit nervous. “I almost threw up, actually…”

“Gaia, Aerith… I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head, folding her hands nervously over her stomach.

“But, um… we… kissed.”

The moment of silence that follows makes Aerith cover her face so Tifa won’t see how red she is.

“You  _ what _ ? Why did you kiss him? Or did he kiss you? He didn’t  _ force _ you did he?”

“He didn’t force me; I did it and I don’t know why!” she blurts, peeking out through her fingers. “I just-- He was in so much  _ pain! _ I wanted to know that he could still be gentle, after all of that...!”

Tifa can’t help a small laugh at the reaction, though her expression is still serious, distrust in her eyes. “Okay, okay… I know you trust him and all, but… don’t forget what he’s done. Don’t cast away your judgement, okay…?”

Aerith sighs, lowering her hands to her stomach once more. “Yeah… I know.”

Tifa smiles sadly, lightly bumping her with her knee. “I want you to be safe. I lost you once, and that was once too many…”

Aerith manages a small smile, reaching to gently hold one of those hands. “Thank you, Tifa… I won’t leave again. I promise.”

Their moment is broken when Cloud steps in, balancing a tray consisting of water bottles and bowls of steaming chowder for them to eat. When he sees how pink Aerith is, however, she just says that the furnace is a bit too warm, and that’s that.

Tifa just smiles through the worry for her dearest friend.

* * *

The sky is endlessly blue. Clouds drift lazily like cotton, and yet there is no proper sun. The light simply seems to come from all angles all at once, and the absence of such an important deity does not seem alarming; merely as it should be. The horizon is only interrupted by greens and the yellow blossoms of lilies, petals of white mixed in with the field. The pollen is thick and sweet in the air, and a lone butterfly moves from one flower to the next in its feast. Monarch wings are brilliant against the simplicity of the field, fluttering idly before they settle as their passenger drinks, only to raise them up again.

A butterfly completely alone, yet not lonely. Simply enjoying that a field of sweet nectar is all for them. A greedy little insect, though insects have no capacity for these feelings. Perhaps it is a  _ happy _ little bug.

A gentle wind pushes and pulls at the tall flowers and grasses, a leisurely breeze that caresses skin that is such a pale porcelain compared to this place, as attention is elsewhere on the butterfly that seems so  _ free _ .

Wings… would be lovely to have. Though for such a freedom, the price is far too steep.

The petals of white among the lilies are feathers, shifting in the breeze before they’re carried away. The feathers from an angel’s wings, shed during speedy flight. They nearly glow in the light, and slim fingers reach out to gently pluck one from the swaying grasses. It’s so soft, unruined and pure…

Though suddenly it’s  _ black _ , dripping oil that sticks and clumps the fibers together. The substance  _ burns _ , and the feather falls heavily to the ground. It burns the dirt and grass, killing the flowers. The butterfly takes off urgently to  _ leave _ , the flowers in the field rapidly degrading to brown stems and wilted, rotted petals. Fear grips that fluttering heart, and the butterfly drops, wings splitting in two as it falls into a pool of black  _ goo _ .

The sound of a woman screaming rattles his brain.

The sound of a man screaming is close behind.

**Wake up, Sephiroth.**

Jade eyes burst open with a sharp gasp, body heaving as if he’s being  _ crushed _ . And perhaps he is, once he realizes that the vision was not a dream. That he exists chest-deep in a burning black substance that  _ sucks _ him downward. His arms are trapped at his sides and he is naked, at the total submission to whatever hell is pulling him down.

He looks up, seeing a gray sky so,  _ so _ far above.

Is he… in the crater?

He remembers taking that first step down, and yet… What happened after? How did he get to the bottom?

Sephiroth whips around, thrashing to gain one arm free. He turns to see an oily figure in the pool with him, blackness morphing into a leather bodysuit, silver hair falling in a crooked cut to cover one eye.

That mouth opens, and black oil drips down his lips as the young man speaks, words garbled by the substance.

“Mother always liked  _ you  _ better…”

The pool bubbles as Sephiroth grabs for any sort of purchase, though the pool merely sucks his free arm back in again. A second body forms, this one with cascading hair that touches the surface of the oil, though he too  _ drools _ the liquid.

“Don’t cry, Brother… It will be over soon…”

Sephiroth is down to his collarbone.

That wing is still out, thrashing  _ desperately _ in the thick liquid. He hits it against a rock and cranes his neck to see it, fighting for another free arm. Once he manages, he grabs wildly for it, fingers scraping on the dark stone as a third and final form emerges.

“Brother… Don’t you want to play?”

**Wake up, please.**

The burning liquid is so oddly  _ cold _ around him, though he manages to kick and thrash his way to get a good hold on the stone behind him. The three remnants begin to approach, however, and he kicks out at one of their legs to push himself closer to the shore of this hellish lake.

The long-haired brother cants his head, eyes slitted and glowing. “Brother… Where are you going?”

He kicks out against the smallest one, sending him splashing back into the pool as he finally finds his footing, scrambling out of the blackness. It sticks to him like hands, trying to pull him back in as whispers assault his mind.

**Don’t go, Brother.**

**I love you.**

**Mother needs you.**

**You’ve betrayed us.**

**You can’t trust them.**

**We need to go, Brother.**

**Play with us.**

Sephiroth is  _ sprinting _ , though the remnants loathe to let him leave. Blackness shoots out of the charred earth not unlike the branches Aerith had restrained him with, yet he dodges them, blackness still tight on his skin before it sizzles to smoke and leaves behind his leathers, wing beating to get him  _ out _ .

**Wake up!**

Aerith startles awake, nearly falling from the low bed she shares with Tifa. The room is dark, yet the grayness of the morning is filtering through dusted old windows. Tifa sleeps soundly beside her thanks to her medication, and Cloud is breathing deep with sleep on the other bed, his sword close to his pillow.

She begins to move, though she doesn’t know  _ why _ . Just that the Planet is crying for her attention, to get her to move, to get her to  _ help _ \--

To wake up.

She clumsily yet carefully untangles herself from sheets and quilts to not wake Cloud or Tifa, tugging on her boots and grabbing her coat, still in her long nightgown and uncaring for it. She rushes down the stairs, startling a dozing clerk at the front desk, yet she ignores the curious call as to what’s wrong by sprinting out into the early morning cold.

The storm is back.

It tears at her hair and burns her skin, yet the urgency she feels is enough to outweigh that. For now, she just  _ runs _ , uncaring that she’s attempting to sprint up a mountain.

**Hurry!**

Sephiroth drags himself over the lip of the crater, the hissing of his  _ brothers _ now a wordless  _ shriek _ as the storm reaches a fever pitch. The wind pushes and shoves at him, attempting to shove him  _ back down _ , yet he fights it, nearly  _ crawling _ just to get away.

A woman stands before him, her skin blue with eternal frostbite. Her eyes are black, hair hanging in thick strands that look rather like  _ tentacles _ . A scar lashes at her neck, as if she’s been  _ fused _ to a young woman’s body.

“You belong to me.”

Her words are  _ loud _ , carrying over the storm and echoing in his head with a voice that is far too familiar to him. Yet her mouth does not move, lips dry and stitched shut. There’s a hole in the side of her head, he sees now, and green blood mixed with the black  _ slime _ in the crater is oozing from it.

Slowly, her blue arms move, to offer him a hand as the wind swirls around them, trying to push them together.

“You are my son, Sephiroth, and I love you. Please… Come back.”

**Leave her.**

She can not feel her nose, her cheeks, her lips. Ice crystals have formed on her eyelashes, and her hands tremble as they hold her coat tightly about herself, snow up to her knees as she scrambles higher, higher,  _ higher _ \--

The sun is beginning to rise, she knows, but the clouds of the storm nearly block it out completely. The wind is against her, as if it’s trying to shove her away and down, yet she fights it, clouds of warm breath ripped away by the gusts. She can’t even see the cave they had spent the night in, or any of the landmarks they had passed by the night before.

The cold and the effort is taking its toll, however, and she’s crawling on all fours. She can’t make it much further… Her fingers and extremities are beginning to burn with the stages of frostbite and she’s having trouble breathing...

Though as she fights upward, a figure appears before her. While she’s wary of the rumors of elemental witches, she does not fear this apparition, stepping closer until her knees nearly go weak.

Her mother smiles, brown hair calm despite the tearing winds. She says nothing, though reaches to offer a hand, green eyes like her daughter’s warm and soft…

Any tears she may have shed have instantly frozen on her cheeks.

Aerith eagerly takes that hand, lips parting as tendrils of green begin to wrap around their joined hands, warmth passing through her as her mother lends her power. And as that hand pulls her close, she allows it, curling in a warm embrace to that bosom.

“I’m so proud of you, my little flower… You’ve become so strong. Keep going.”

**Go!**

Black gloved hands reach for those blue fingers, bent and wrinkled with  _ death _ . He wraps his fingers around them and the winds quiet as he stands, those stitched lips grotesquely turning into a grin.

“My son…”

And she pulls him close, for a motherly embrace…

Gloved hands roughly grip at her throat, and those dark eyes widen in alarm when thumbs press  _ hard _ against the scar that fuses head to body. He  _ pulls _ , a boot planting into her stomach to push her  _ down _ , ripping the bleeding head off with him.

The scream is no worse than the one that haunts him already.

**Find him.**

Those warm,  _ warm _ arms are suddenly gone, and yet Aerith is not alarmed. She merely straightens up, finding in her mother’s place a tall staff of gnarled oak clasped in her hands. And she stands at the crater, looking up to see the wind and snow abruptly  _ stop _ , and in the middle of it all stands Sephiroth, slowly walking towards her with a  _ head _ under his arm, leaking black-green alien blood onto the snow.

“Sephiroth…!”

The urgency of the Planet dies down to a soft murmur as she steps near him, using her staff to help her through the snow. 

“What…?”

He drops the head to the snow, though he hardly looks  _ pleased _ . He does not hold the same victory in this as he had when he murdered Hojo, and his face is nearly  _ blank _ as he lifts his foot, stomping the heel of his boot into the soft spot on Jenova’s skull, smashing it against the rock and ice beneath the snow until black-green blood oozes out with gray matter.

A whisper of the Planet enters both of their minds, eyes as green as a field meeting eyes as deep as mako.

**Thank you…**

Sephiroth’s wing unfurls, and he begins to take off. To return to the crater to end the monstrosities there. To carry out the erasure of everything that created him and the evil on this planet. To cure a disease thousands of years old.

Yet a small hand grabs the crossing belts over his chest, grounding him.

“Where are you going…?”

He blinks at her, though does not speak, lips pulling to a subtle frown when he sees the ice around her eyes and the redness of her nose and cheeks.

“...You’ll get frostbite.”

Aerith huffs, though gives a tiny smile, fingers still looped around that leather as if afraid he might take off the second she lets go. “Then take me back to the inn. We can plan a better attack, if there’s more. You don’t have to do this on your own. Let me help.”

She expects, by now, that he will heel to her like a dog. A stray that she’s found starved and beaten on the side of the road, and now it  _ must _ trust her enough to obey. But that dog is still  _ feral _ , and gloved hands raise to unclasp her fingers from his coat.

“I’m not finished.”

It’s Aerith’s turn to frown now, looking over at the mangled mess of JENOVA. It looks plenty finished to her, and the Planet seems to be at ease, yet… She can hear the voices muttering in nervousness. Not everything is right, just yet… But of course; how dare she think this to be so easy.

Small cold-numbed hands reach for him again, snatching the unfastened straps on his coat when her fallen angel moves away again. Aerith is nothing short of  _ stubborn _ as those eyes lock onto cold jade, the storm brewing anew.

“Then let me help! I already told you that you don’t have to do this alone!”

She sees the way his jaw flexes, the way his eyes move away from her as if he cannot look at her. His own lashes are clumped with ice, though he doesn’t seem to notice or care, even when he blinks and frost dusts onto his cheeks before it melts.

“Go back to the inn, Aerith.”

Sephiroth, too, is stubborn as this mountain itself.

“No! I’m not going back without you. We’re in this together, alright?”

Something seems to  _ crack _ within the former general and he rounds on her, pushing her away so harshly that she falls backwards into the snow with a dull  _ fwump _ . Her eyes are big, though, and for the first time, Sephiroth sees  _ fear _ .

“I nearly killed you and your  _ friends _ once already. I will not do it again.”

Aerith lets out a wordless cry as she struggles to stand, watching that black wing unfurl and those boots leave the ground, propelling him beyond her reach, back into the crater where the blackness swallows him whole.

But there, in those last moments, she had seen his eyes. They were normally so unreadable among their turmoil, like frosted glass that warped the interior. A split second of looking up at him had revealed them at a different angle, however, and the sight there makes her heart ache.

She had seen regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the cliffhangers will end..........maybe.
> 
> Next chapter: Hallucinations, a very concerned Cloud, and _tongue_


End file.
